Limbo
by unilocular
Summary: After a confrontation with a suspect leaves an agent trapped between this life and what comes next, Tony wonders what keeps him here. Supernatural/sort of death fic. Team friendship, focus on Tony and Tim.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer : If you recognize it, I still don't own it. All characters remain intellectual property of CBS and their creators. All locations and addresses are all figments of my imagination.**

**Title :** Limbo

**Summary : **A confrontation with a suspect leaves an agent trapped between this life and what comes after. As the team struggles through the loss, he wonders what keeps him here. Deathfic of sorts/supernatural. Lots of angst. Involves the whole team, focus on Tony and McGee. Strong T for language and violence.

**Author's Note :**_ I'm about halfway through a new story, but this idea has been bothering me since the last one. It's very different from most of my usual ones as it deals with ghosts and angst. If that's not your thing, no hard feelings. I'll have my casefic up hopefully in a month or so. _

_This is a sort of a deathfic. Again, if it's not your thing, hit the back button. Angst here and lots more to come. _

_Set in season 3. _

_This is a WIP, so I'm not sure what the update schedule will look like._

_As always, constructive criticism is welcome. _

_Alright, here we go. _

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Tuesday, February 15, 2005 – 3:18 pm – Congressional Storage – 2800 15th St. NW, Washington, DC –**

As he pulls the Dodge Charger up against the curb, Tony DiNozzo stares at the dilapidated warehouse that sits in the middle of the rundown city block. Taking in the gang symbols plastered all over the building's bricks and unsavory foot traffic milling on the sidewalk, he presses his lips together. He ducks down in the driver's seat, trying for a better view.

From the silence, Tim McGee knows exactly what the senior agent is thinking.

When Tim starts to speak, a passing vagrant makes a vulgar gesture by his window. His face burns and he shakes his head, sending the homeless man away. Tony swivels in his seat, raising his eyebrows at Tim.

"You're sure this is the right place, Probie?" he asks, gesturing towards the building.

Tim pulls out his notepad to confirm the latest hit from their BOLO. While this isn't the first sighting of their suspect, he hopes that it will be the last.

As his eyes glance over the team's last three days of work, he shakes his head. Seeing all their leads in his careful script makes Tim realize exactly how many hours he's been awake since they were called to investigate the grisly, on-base murder of a quintessential Navy family.

Shaking his head again, he tries to chase the horrific images of the bodies of three young children and their mother away. For two solid days, they've haunted his waking thoughts and materialized in his nightmares.

When a fingerprint from the murder weapon finally found its match in AFIS, Tim thought he'd be able to lay the victims to rest. After a picture of the children's father, Carlos Ruiz, appeared on the plasma, his heart sank. In that moment, he realized there were so many things in this world that he would never understand.

Tim swallows hard, desperate to forget the experiences emblazoned on his memory.

"Probie?"

Tim blinks, returning to the present.

"Y-yeah, Ruiz was last sighted at Congressional Storage about an hour ago," he nods, sliding the pad away.

He knows he's repeating himself.

"Okay," Tony shrugs, clicking off the engine.

As they climb out of the car, a frigid air roars past. Tim pulls his coat tighter, shivering uncontrollably.

He gazes at the warehouse that stretches towards the cloudless sky. With its shattered windows and slipshod masonry, he debates whether or not the storage facility is still operational. As he trails Tony to the heavy wood door, a chill meanders down his spine. Tony pauses by the door, producing his gun and flashlight. When he leans against the wall, Tim notices how comfortable the senior agent appears before their pursuit. Pulling out his own weapon and flashlight, Tim tries to disregard the clench in his gut.

"Alright, McGee," Tony orders, commanding Tim's attention, "here's how this is going to go. We'll clear each floor one at a time until we check every inch of this place. Try to stick with me, got it?"

"Got it."

Tim wipes his sweaty palm on his trench coat before wrapping his hand around his Sig's grip again. Before he can raise it, DiNozzo squeezes his shoulder.

"I've got your six, Tim. Ready?" Tony places his hand on the door handle, pushing his body deeper into the wall, while McGee raises his weapon.

Tim nods and Tony pulls the door open. Advancing over the threshold, Tim swings his flashlight to the left. He hears Tony slide behind him, moving quietly over the dirty floor. As the door slams, blackness swallows the agents.

Squinting in the low light from his flashlight, Tim steps around several large boxes scattered haphazardly. He surveys the first floor of the warehouse, taking in the shipping containers that start on one wall and end at the other.

When he thinks of the seven floors above them, he sighs quietly. Hunting Ruiz will take all night, if he's even in the warehouse.

Tim creeps slowly, peering between containers to confirm that Ruiz isn't hiding between them. By the time he arrives at the wall, his eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness. Glancing over his shoulder, he realizes that he is very much alone.

Inhaling sharply, Tim spins in a tight circle.

He doesn't see Tony anywhere.

Holding his breath, he listens hard for his partner. There's nothing except for the quiet rumble of traffic on the street outside. His heart skips a beat, panic rising in his throat.

"Tony?" he whispers, backing into a passageway formed by shipping containers.

The silence deafens him. Tim grimaces, checking his cell phone to call for back-up. With no signal, he realizes that he is completely isolated.

Knowing that he needs to call Gibbs, Tim tries to double back to the entrance. He slides along a shipping container, using its corrugated exterior as a guide. When he reaches its terminus, he checks in both directions for a new route. Two identical passages lined by even more containers lay on either side.

His flashlight isn't bright enough to fully illuminate the paths. Unable to see very far down either one, Tim turns right, hoping he's chosen correctly.

"Tony," he calls again, desperate to know the senior agent's okay.

As he stumbles on his trek, Tim discerns a faint light in the distance. When he finds another wall, he smiles at the sunlight pouring through a grimy window. He's relieved that he's no longer struggling to find his way in the dark. He checks his phone again, grimacing at its continued lack of service. Sliding along the wall, he anxiously searches for a door to the outside. He just needs to get a signal strong enough to call for back-up.

A scraping noise on the opposite side of a container catches his attention.

"Tony?"

When he hears no response, Tim's grip tightens on his Sig. As the pressure in his stomach climbs into his throat, he realizes that he's probably found Ruiz. Swallowing hard, Tim doubles back into the passage. With no time to formulate a plan, he chooses to corner Ruiz between the containers.

As he flicks off his flashlight, he travels slowly back into the dark hall. Hearing a footstep deeper in the tunnel, Tim creeps around the corner, prepared to apprehend Ruiz.

He's ready to bring closure to the first case in years to give him nightmares.

Tim manages a few steps before a solid object slams into his forearms, knocking his gun away. Somewhere in the blackness, metal connects with concrete, clattering as it slides from him. Without a second thought, he follows it to the ground.

Tim's body slithers over the disgusting floor, hands fumbling through the debris for his weapon. When his fingertips touch a boot's laces, he scrambles back towards the passage. As he retreats, a flashlight pointed in his face flicks on, blinding him. It turns off again, leaving a disorienting white spot burned into his retinas.

A strong hand catches Tim by his collar, yanking him to his feet. He throws his weight, struggling to break the hold on his coat. When a gun's barrel pokes his ribs, his fight ends.

Heart in his throat, Tim raises his hands.

"You don't want to do this," he starts, although he's fairly certain that rationalizing with a man who's just slaughtered his entire family isn't possible.

A tug on the collar of Tim's trench leads him out of the shipping container maze and back to the wall lined with windows. The bright afternoon sunlight pours through the filmy windows, illuminating specks of dust that glitter in the air.

Tim sneezes.

He's spurred forward, past several more containers until they reach their end. A hard shove sends him stumbling into the corner. Turning around slowly, Tim intends to stare into the eyes of the man who will end his life.

"On your knees," Carlos Ruiz orders, gesturing towards the dirty ground.

As an icy wind blasts through a broken window, Tim's eyes meet Ruiz's.

The gaze Tim catches belongs to a man who's lost his soul.

"You don't want to do this, Ruiz," Tim repeats, watching Carlos make a face.

"How do _you_ know what _I_ want to do?" Ruiz asks, kicking a wood fragment across the floor. When it bumps into Tim's foot, the agent frowns. "_I said, _on your knees."

Heart racing, Tim sinks to the floor. To avoid provoking Ruiz any further, he locks his hands behind his head. He glances back towards the shipping containers, but sees nothing. Perspiration pricks onto his brow, finding its way down his face.

"Where's your partner?"

"My what?" Tim asks, silently hoping that Ruiz doesn't know about Tony.

"The other cop you came with. You sure as hell didn't come after me alone."

Tim exhales slowly, watching its specter Ruiz steps forward, Tim's heart skips a beat. With his back nearly against the wall, he can't move away. Ruiz taps the gun on the agent's forehead.

Tim's eyes close.

"Call your partner," Ruiz orders.

Tim swallows hard, pressing his lips together. When he doesn't see life's montage like he's always been promised, he feels forsaken.

As Ruiz clicks the hammer back, Tim's survival instinct surpasses his need to protect DiNozzo.

"Tony!"

Ruiz laughs, pulling the gun away from Tim's head. Able to breathe again, he pulls a shaky inhale. The icy air drifts through the window, crystallizing the sweat on his boiling skin. Keeping his gun trained on Tim, Ruiz nervously watches the shipping containers for any sign of Tony.

For several long minutes, Tim waits, feeling the cold ache into his joints.

His head begins to pound as hard as his heart.

As he stares at the petty officer, Tim wonders what drove the man to destroy his family. He can't think of anything that should drive a sane man to massacre anyone, let alone his own blood.

When Ruiz confirms that his hostage isn't ready to fight back, there's an undeniable rage in his eyes. Carlos advances towards the agent again and Tim's heart slams against his sternum.

"Where the hell is your partner?" he barks.

Tim's eyes widen.

"I-I- I don't know," he gasps.

"Where is he?"

"I-I-I swear I-I-I don't know."

There's a click of the hammer again and Tim closes his eyes, still surprised by the blankness of his mind.

He's always thought he'd feel something.

Anything.

The cold metal freezes the moisture on his forehead.

He's unable to stare Ruiz in the eyes. Tim knows it doesn't matter anyway.

"Last chance, cop, _where is he?"_

"Right here, Ruiz, leave him alone," Tony chimes in.

When the gun eases from his forehead, Tim barely inhales.

"Good, we're all here," Ruiz grins, baring his coffee-stained teeth at Tony. "Lose the gun or I end him."

As the senior agent slides out from behind a shipping container, the look in his eyes is lethal. With his weapon pointed at Ruiz, his fluid movement brings him within yards of the standoff.

"Yeah, I don't think so," Tony growls through clenched teeth.

"Put the gun down or he dies," Ruiz tries again, pointing toward Tim with his free hand.

Tim can feel his pulse in his teeth.

"Still not going to happen," Tony states, voice low and even. Almost as if unsure how to react, Ruiz glances from the senior agent back to Tim. "You can surrender or I can shoot you. What's it going to be?"

Ruiz's finger tightens on the trigger and Tony's weapon bobs to confirm his aim.

"You really didn't think this through very well, did you, Ruiz?"

Confusion clouds the suspect's eyes.

"What do you mean?"

"What did you think was going to happen? You'd tell me to put down my gun. I'd drop it and let you put a bullet in me and my partner? Come on."

When he realizes death is his only outcome, bile bites the back of Tim's throat. He hiccups at the acidity on his tongue, forcing himself to swallow his terror.

As Ruiz shrugs half-heartedly, Tony smirks.

"Yeah, well, I'll kill him if you don't."

"You'll kill him anyway," Tony replies flippantly, rechecking his aim.

Pressing his lips together, Ruiz seems to accept their stalemate. Attempting to force Tony's hand, his finger threateningly jerks on the trigger.

Tony yells something incoherent in Spanish and the gun swings away from Tim's head, lining up a new target. Simultaneously, two gunshots echo through the cavernous warehouse.

Shaking uncontrollably, Tim blinks to find both Tony and Ruiz on the filthy floor. He pulls out his cellphone, pleading for an ambulance, as he scrambles towards his senior agent.

Under Tony's supine body, blood flows freely over the uneven ground. Tim drops next to him, shrugging off his coat, and pushing it against his senior agent's abdomen. Helplessly watching the color drain away from Tony's face, Tim feels his breath hitch.

"Hold on, Tony," he begs, counting the ragged rise and falls of his superior's chest.

Tim glances over at the suspect, confirming that he was no longer breathing. A loud exhalation grabs his attention. Dropping his gaze, he's shocked to see a tight smile on Tony's ashen face.

"You okay, Probie?" Tony questions, words slurring out of his blood tinged lips.

Tim nods.

"Good."

Before Tim can ask about him, the senior agent slumps against the dirty stone. Heart beating quicker than he knew possible, Tim tries to apply more pressure to his coat. Despite his frantic attempts, the blood seeps through its fabric and his fingers.

He never knew blood felt so warm.

"Come on, Tony," he yells, shaking his superior. "Wake up! I need you to say with me! Wake up, Tony! Come on!"

He shouts for several moments before Tony's eyes flutter open again. Even though his eyes are unfocused, he still smiles. There's more redness on his pale lips.

"Is Ruiz - ?" he coughs.

"Dead, yeah. Nice shot," Tim says, watching Tony try to slip away again. "What did you say to him?"

"What?"

"In Spanish. You yelled something in Spanish. Tell me about it," Tim says, despair tinges his voice as he struggles to keep Tony conscious until the ambulance arrives.

"Yo momma's like a bicycle, everybody gets a ride," Tony laughs. His eyes close for a second before they focus on Tim again.

"What?!"

"That's what I told him. Based on that reaction," Tony grins, face contorting with pain for a split second, "I'd say I might be right."

His eyes flutter close.

As Tim presses his coat harder against the gunshot, Tony gasps. With his eyes open again, he's inspecting something just over Tim's shoulder.

"Tony?"

He doesn't respond as his vision follows whatever he sees. Out of nowhere, he nods.

"Yeah, Mom, that's my friend, Tim," Tony whispers into the ether.

"No, Tony, don't -. Please - " Tim yells while Tony's body shudders. His eyelids fall closed and his breath stops. Bloodied hand trembling, Tim reaches to check the pulse point on Tony' neck.

As the screams of the approaching ambulance resound throughout the warehouse, Tim feels nothing under his fingertips.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**5:01pm – George Washington Hospital – Washington, DC –**

Somewhere nearby, he thinks he hears someone screaming. Shaking his head to rearrange his thoughts, Tony rubs the back of his neck. As he opens his eyes, he finds that he's in the middle of a hospital's trauma bay. There's a flurry of activity as a group of scrub-clad personnel lean over a body supine on a table.

"We lost the rhythm again," a black-haired woman in a white coat barks, dark eyes burning. "Give me 200 Joules."

"Clear."

There's a quiet thud.

"Still nothing!"

"Administer 1mg Epinephrine, IV push," the woman orders, surveying the frenzied action of the code team. As Tony steps beside her, he can see the determination etched onto her face. It seems as though she refuses to let the patient go.

Watching the team work, Tony wonders how he's found himself at a hospital. Without wanting to disturb the code in progress, Tony slips through the double doors that lead to the emergency department. As he heads past the patient rooms, groups of people glide past him without making eye contact.

Something doesn't feel right.

Checking his pockets, he realizes that he's lost his cell phone and wallet. He shrugs, wondering how he's managed to misplace such important items. Though that's not particularly important, he just needs to find a phone so he can beg his boss for a ride.

He follows the signs for the waiting room. Passing through the double doors, he nearly bumps into an older man.

When he steps out of the way, he almost doesn't recognize Jethro Gibbs' haggard face. Planted in front of the entrance, his boss stands at attention, his eyes fixed on the interior of the emergency department. If Tony didn't know any better, he'd swear that his boss is staring through him.

"Boss?" he yelps, feeling shocked when Gibbs doesn't respond.

Tony waves his hand inches from his boss' face, but Gibbs still doesn't move.

"Boss?"

When he glances to the side, he sees the rest of the team scattered throughout the myriad of patients in the waiting room. Calmly reclining in a chair, Ziva David leafs through a magazine. Donald Mallard paces the length of the waiting room chairs, wringing his hands. The grim look on his face makes Tony's stomach drop.

"Ducky? What's going on?"

The doctor just keeps moving and Tony shakes his head.

As he continues through the waiting room, he's amazed that not a single person has acknowledged his presence. When he finds Tim and Abby Scuito together in the corner, Tony's heart breaks.

Face buried in his hands, Tim leans forward on his knees. Inexplicably, he's wearing green hospital scrubs with his dress shoes and there's little bits of what might be dried blood imbedded in his fingernails. From the heave in his chest, Tony believes his subordinate might be crying.

With her hand on Tim's shoulder, Abby stares blankly at the empty chair across from her. Pressing her lips together, she tries to appear stalwart. Unable to keep her resolve, her lips start to quiver before the tears silently stream down her face.

Abby was never one for waterproof make-up.

"Abs? Probie?" Tony starts, starting to reach for Abby's hand. "What's wrong? You guys look like - ."

His fingers touch Abby's and she pulls it away, smearing the mascara across her face.

When they don't answer either, Tony can't figure out why not a single person has reacted since he arrived at the hospital. Pit forming in his stomach, hereturns to his boss' vigil. As he copies Gibbs' stance, he waits for the unknown.

The doors swing open and the short-haired doctor from the code exits. Before the doors even close, she nods stone-faced at Gibbs.

"Agent DiNozzo's family?"

"I'm his boss."

"I need to speak with his family first," she states, turning around.

Gibbs grabs her arm, pulling her gently back. As Tony watches, there's a vulnerability on his boss' face that he's never seen before. The rest of the team convenes around the pair, faces broken.

"We are his family."

The words clench in Tony's chest. When he sees Tim's red-rimmed eyes, Tony swallows hard.

There's a reason that no one has breathed a word to him. Tony puts his hands on the doctor's shoulders.

Hugging her arms to herself, the doctor frowns deeply.

"We lost his pulse shortly after he came in. We did everything we could. Despite our best efforts, - ," she laments, losing her words as she takes in the tense group before her.

"What – what are you saying?" Tim wheezes, his voice borders on hysterical. When Abby tries to pull him closer, he shrugs her away.

"Agent DiNozzo didn't make it."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

_So? Good? Bad? Ugly? _

_Definitely hopping into a new genre for me. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note : **_I'd like to sta_rt like_ I always do with a thank you to all the readers, followers, PMs and favoriters. Extra big thanks to _**_prince-bishop, scousemuz1k, Lister4eva, jmsings, DS2010, Guest - Pineapple and two anonymous guests._**_ I appreciate the time you took to leave your thoughts._

_As I think I've upset some people with this one so far, it's an angst piece but _**_Spoiler alert, spoiler alert, spoiler alert : _**_Tony will not be dead at the end._

_This story is turning out to be more difficult to write than I thought. I have it all planned out, but it's hard to get in the mood to write something as depressing as this. Updates will be sporadic since I want to get this story right moreso than completed._

_Hate to ask, but please let me know how this is going. I'm not sure how I feel about this one..._

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**5:22pm – George Washington Hospital – Washington, DC –**

"W-w-w-what? It c-c-can't - . H-h-he is-s-s-n't. T-t-t-tony can't - ," Tim stammers, hiccuping as he loses the words.

When Abby collapses into Ducky's arms, Tim takes a step away from everyone, staring intently at the floor. The dark-haired doctor presses her lips together, nodding sullenly. The tears that spring to her eyes are an indication that she's as upset as the group before her.

"Can you - ? What happened to Anthony?" Mallard's the first to speak, wrapping his arms around Abby's shoulders as he pushes his glasses higher.

"Agent DiNozzo passed away in surgery," the doctor says, watching Abby's sobs. "I - , we did everything we could. Believe me, I - . I'm sorry for your loss. I am so, so sorry. Let me see if I can get the crisis counselor."

"Thank you, doctor," Mallard nods, while her green-scrub clad figure vanishes.

Staring intently through the double glass doors, Gibbs studies the hospital staff as they go about their daily activities. While they mill about talking about things of no consequence, a family mourns their fallen member. Just inside the doors, a doctor stops to gossip with a nurse and Gibbs' eyes narrow at their normalcy.

"Jethro? Perhaps you'd be more comfortable - ?"

Mallard offers to relocate the Gibbs to the waiting chairs while the loudspeaker pages the crisis counselor. A quick shake of his head lets the medical examiner know that he doesn't intend to leave his post.

Even though he waits for a person that will never return, Gibbs can't seem to abandon his vigil.

Mallard gives his friend's shoulder a tight squeeze, frowning tightly as he leads an upset Abby back to her chair.

Caught between his own grief and crushing guilt, Tim numbly watches Ziva threaten the man in the chair adjacent to Abby's. As Mallard slides next to her, he listens to her gut-wrenching cries. Pressing his hands to his face, Tim begs himself to wake. When he blinks hard and sees Gibbs still standing at attention, Tim learns that reality can be worse than nightmares.

"Boss, I - ," he starts, taking a small step towards Gibbs.

"Don't, Tim," Gibbs pleads, the emotion catches him off-guard. "Just, _don't."_

As his boss stalks out the ambulance bay, Tim opens his mouth to yell after Gibbs. Forgetting all his words, a small cry escapes his lips. Abby glances up at him, mascara smeared all over her face and Mallard's shirt. Trying to be brave, she smiles through her tears momentarily before her resolve fades.

Obviously uncomfortable with all the emotions, Ziva rubs a spot on Abby's arm. While she traces a figure-eight, the Israeli repeats something poetic in Hebrew.

Tim thinks she might be praying.

Knowing he's responsible for everything, he swallows hard. He tries to speak, but he's not sure that he remembers the language.

When three sets of upset eyes stare blankly back at him, Tim bites his lip.

He begins to defend himself, ending before he starts. Every part of him knows there is no justification.

Without a second thought, he follows Gibbs' course, sprinting through the ambulance bay doors into the frigid February air.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**7:41pm – NCIS Headquarters – Washington, DC –**

As he glides off the elevator, Tony moves towards the bullpen. It figures in the afterlife that he'd still return to work.

With the quiet that hangs over the floor, he wonders whether his coworkers have heard the news or merely headed home for the night. Tony sits at his desk, watching the screen saver that he made Tim install a few days ago.

He can't remember where he found the flying toasters again. Smiling wryly, he knows it doesn't matter anymore.

Watching the appliances scroll across the monitor, Tony mulls his current predicament. He realizes that life after death wasn't quite what he'd expected. Having based his expectations on cinema, Tony always thought he'd run into G-d, an angel, or, at the very least, another lost soul.

Tony feels his head again, not expecting to find a halo. Still unable to fly, he assumes that he hasn't earned his wings yet. That's if he ever gets wings. With his life, he's still not quite sure where he's headed.

He listens for a bell's ring. Even though it's not true, he still expects the figments of his favorite movies to come to pass.

At the hospital, he spent a long time waiting for an angel to help him revisit his misspent time like _It's A Wonderful Life. _When Clarence never arrived, he waited for a demon to review his misdeeds to secure him a place in hell just like in _Heaven Can Wait._

Hell, he'd even have appreciated someone shaking their chains like Jacob Marley from _A Christmas Carol._

But when no one came and he had to take the bus to NCIS, he decided Hollywood has glorified the afterlife just a bit.

"Why am I still here?" he yells.

Listening hard, he hears nothing but the quiet conversations of several agents nearby.

"I don't get it," he continues, unable to quell the frustration. "Why am I still here? Isn't there anything for me? Shouldn't I go somewhere? Don't I need to move on? Cross over?"

As he waits for any response, another winged toaster traipses across his screen. He reaches after his mouse, frowning when his hand passes through it.

_"Come on!"_

The elevator dings and he leans over, watching Ziva meander into the bullpen. She drops her backpack to the ground, stooping to retrieve a gym bag from under her desk.

When Tony realizes where she's headed, his face breaks out in a wicked grin.

He follows her to the gym, straight into the women's locker room. While she changes into her work-out clothes, Tony completes a long-lived fantasy, knowing he's a dead man if she catches him.

When he realizes someone's already beat her to the punch, he presses his lips together.

As she heads into the gym, he trails her, not sure what else to do. Ziva claims a punching bag in the corner and pulls on a pair of boxing gloves.

Slamming her fist repeatedly into the bag's rugged exterior, she whispers something in Hebrew. She switches to her opposite hand for repetitions, her mutterings growing more guttural.

"I do not understand," she says, finally.

"Well, that makes two of us," Tony agrees, crossing his arms.

As he leans against the wall, she round-houses kicks the bag so hard that it slams into the spot next to Tony. When it rebounds, the support beam above groans under the force.

"You were always so infuriating, Tony," she grouses, landing another kick into the bag. "Loud, obnoxious, annoying, loathsome, repugnant, swine-faced."

As she lists every negative trait, her kicks on the bag become more vicious.

"Pig-headed, Zee-vah," Tony corrects on instinct.

Her mixed-up idioms still drive him up the wall. He always did like to see the agitation in her eyes at his correction.

"That is not right," she growls, landing another strike, "but I do not care."

She pauses momentarily, breathing hard with effort.

"You'll get it someday," Tony says, walking around her figure.

"I still do not understand," she mutters, kicking again. As the bag swings towards Tony, he jumps out of the way but it still passes through his legs. Watching in horror as it swing back through his lower extremities, his heart breaks.

He realizes that he no longer feels the comfort of constant thud of his heartbeat. It's one of those things he didn't even think about until it's not there anymore.

"How is it that I find Tony so aggravating, yet I am saddened by his death?" Ziva asks, staring blankly at the bag. "It is simple. He was annoying. He is dead. I should be peaceful, however, I am not."

Unsure what to make of her confession, Tony doesn't know how to respond. Even if he did, she can't hear him.

A harsh cry escapes her lips. She lunges forward, connecting with the punching bag. The support beam groans above them, desperately trying to keep hold.

As she wipes a tear from her cheek, the bag crashes to the floor.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**8:12pm – Residence of Timothy McGee – Silver Spring, MD –**

Trudging up the stairs to his apartment, Tim knows his world will never be the same. As he pulls his keys from his pocket, he notices the bits of dried blood still imbedded in his fingernails.

He swallows hard.

Even though he scrubbed his hands for hours at the hospital, he just can't get the last of Tony's blood off his hands. Tim wonders if they will ever be clean again.

He slides into his pitch-dark apartment, locking the door behind him. Under the light from the street lamps streaming through the windows, he heads into the kitchen. Tim pulls a frozen meal out of his freezer and tosses it into the microwave, box and all.

As he smashes a few buttons, the realization that Tony is dead hits him full force.

Tim finally understands there will be no more McNicknames, spitballs, or hazing. While the tears find their way down his face, he smiles with quivering lips. Tim's never appreciated Tony's frat-boy way of acceptance until this moment.

Brushing the products of his failures away, Tim finds his way through the dark to his bed.

Still in his coat and scrubs from the hospital, he climbs onto his mattress, staring at the headlights' reflections that race across the ceiling. Through the blinds, the slivers of passing lights merge before they fade to black.

Something in the kitchen beeps, alerting him that sustenance is ready. After its last beep, he forgets that he tried to make dinner.

Tim remains still, watching the lights dance overhead.

He thinks of things that he hasn't contemplated since he was a little boy.

Heaven, hell, angels, demons, G-d, Satan. He debates about the existence of an afterlife.

His rational brain answers no, but his human heart begs yes.

For Tony, there has to be something after this life.

_Something. Anything._

Tim cannot accept that Tony simply ceases to exist.

As the hours pass, the headlights diminish until the room falls nearly dark.

A streetlamp flashes, its bulb dying, and the blackness swallows Tim whole.

He drifts into a peaceful sleep, unaware that his nightmare will still be there when he wakes.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

_Good? Bad? Blah?_


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer : I own nothing recognizable, just having fun.**

**Author's Note : **_As always, I'd like to thank all the followers, favoriters, and lurkers. Extra special thanks to _**_prince-bishop, DS2010, stillrestless, scousemuz1k, AgentD.6, Sadaco, ChrissyS, Megth, _**_and _**_goodbye31bluesky. _**_Your thoughts really do help me feel like I'm doing okay with this story._

_I'm still not sure how I feel about this one._

_Again, updates will be sporadic. I'm taking on chapters of this as I hit writer's block on my other one._

_For those of you who prefer procedurals, I'll start posting my new case this week. Not quite done yet, but I'm hoping to kick this block in the butt._

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Wednesday, February 16, 2006 – 12:51am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

Without any better place to go, Tony wandered back to the bullpen after Ziva left the gym. Since he'd always felt at home there, it makes sense for him to linger until he finds out what he's meant to do. The best he can figure that there's some mission he must complete before he passes to the other side. That's what people always say about ghosts, something left undone must be finished before they move on.

Tony's convinced that he's never left anything in life undone; he's not sure there's even an other side.

Under the low glow of the overhead lights, Tony watches the flying toasters flap across his monitor. He's been at his desk for hours, hunched forward, staring blankly at their flights of fancy while he tries to decipher the meaning in all this.

He rubs his hands across his chin, his gaze finding Gibbs' empty desk. Tony had always wondered what it would be like to be a team leader. As he heads over to his boss' space, he looks through the bullpen, savoring the change in perspective.

He slides into the team leader's spot, looking out at the empty desks scattered around him. He can see each and every available inch of the bullpen : from Tim's mouse on the wrong side of his desk to the letter opener Ziva sharpens on her boot heel when she's aggravated to his own abandoned spitball straw.

Tony realizes how it must feel to be omnipresent.

Sighing, Tony understands that the dreams he's always held will never come to pass.

He covers his face with his hands, feeling an unfamiliar pinch in his soul. If he were capable of tears, Tony's sure he'd shed them now.

He knows the only reason that kept him from his own team was his team, the people that grew into a surrogate family.

Tony exhales slowly, thinking hard about his friends, especially Gibbs. Every part of him hopes that when he slides his hands away from his face that he'll be back at his desk, running down a lead for a case that's no longer important.

He doesn't want to move his hands, fearing that when he does than nothing will have changed.

He'll still be dead, his beloved team still destroyed and he'll still not know how to move onto whatever's next.

Tony grimaces.

Tony's ears perk at the sound of a quiet scraping noise, a distinct smell of wood wafts past his nose. Suddenly, a clattering noise resonates nearby, followed by a mumbled curse.

Curiosity gets the better of him, leaving him glancing around a dark basement in mute amazement. Scattered around the dank, poorly lit space, tools and pieces of boats are everywhere. In the middle of the room, a partially completed boat hull waits for its rough wood to be smoothed.

It takes Tony several long seconds to realize that he's in Gibbs' basement. He's not surprised that he doesn't recognize it since he only visited his boss' lair once on a case several years ago. Even then, it was dark and Gibbs kicked him out shortly after delivering the orders.

As far as he can remember, this boat doesn't resemble the one Gibbs worked on the last time he was here. He stares around the four solid walls, wondering how Gibbs plans to extricate his current project and how he removed the previous one.

Figures that, in death, he wouldn't learn the answer to any of life's mysteries.

A clattering noise echoes again, followed by an even louder curse.

Tony rounds the boat to find Gibbs stretching under the hull after a planing tool. Underneath the boat and just out of reach, his boss drops his knees.

"Damn it. G-damn it," he curses, pounding his hand against the boat's rough exterior.

His frustrations resound hollowly.

When he's unable to reach his tool, Gibbs leans back against his wood bench, retrieving a jar filled to the brim with bourbon off the floor. He takes a swig, glancing near the space where Tony stands.

"G-damn it, Tony," he slurs.

"Boss, I didn't - . I'll - ," Tony sputters, stopping when he realizes that his boss can't hear him.

"You never got it," Gibbs continues, bleary eyes not seeing his agent in front of him. "You always acted like a kid, like a G-damn royal pain in the ass. Spitballs? Superglue on McGee's keyboard? That peanut container with the snakes in it, really? All that shit you did to McGee? Just how the hell old were you?"

Tony opens his mouth to answer, shaking his head since his boss already knows.

"Old enough to know better, I guess. Pranks, really?"

"McGee's a really easy target," Tony shrugs, trying to lean against the boat. When he starts to fall through it, he barely regains his composure and stands in front of Gibbs' stare instead.

"If you just focused a little bit more, we could've had a higher closure rate," Gibbs pauses, pulling a long swig of bourbon.

Tony runs his hand through his hair, grinning. Only Gibbs would find the team's unprecedented ninety-seven percent closure rate as not high enough. But then again, his boss demanded absolute perfection from them all.

Always more, never less.

While his team leader numbly sips his bourbon, Tony walks through the tight space around the boat. He studies the relics of his boss' life. From the well-used tools and numerous jars filled with sticky bourbon residue, Tony understands the sacrifices that his boss made for the team. When he notices a small crudely drawn picture of a family in a child's hand, Tony realizes that even his boss has secrets.

"I know you turned down those offers for your own team. Twice in the past year," Gibbs says accusingly. "Though I don't know why."

His boss stumbles up from his spot on the floor, a grey head peeking over the top of the boat. Leaving Gibbs' demons unprovoked, Tony heads back around the boat.

Gibbs leans against his work bench, carefully sipping his bourbon.

"Wasn't ready yet, I guess," Tony shrugs again. "There's a lot you needed to teach me still. Do you really think McGee's ready for a spot as senior field agent? Plus, you and I both know Abby would've killed me."

Tony plays with his lapel, realizing the irony of his statement.

"Abby probably would've killed you," Gibbs chuckles, his face breaking into a small smile before contorting with unspeakable pain.

Tony takes a step forward, placing his hand on his boss' shoulder. Gibbs drops his jar, its contents running all over the floor when the vessel shatters. Shivering uncontrollably, his boss reaches after a faded red, hole-riddled sweatshirt emblazoned with the Marine Corps logo.

Gibbs grabs another jar, dumping the bolts it contains over his workbench. With a shaking hand, he pours himself another drink. He holds it up, as if raising a toast.

"Tony, I'm proud of you," he murmurs. "You were one hell of an agent and a decent man."

His boss finishes the drink, placing the jar back on the workbench with the others. Gibbs marches to the stairs, pausing at the bottom. He sways slightly, gripping the railing to keep himself upright.

"You protected Tim today, just like I'd have wanted. You did good, Tony."

Gibbs switches the light off, his slow footsteps thud up the stairs. Tony waits in the dark, trying to quell the despair that rises in his chest. Above, he hears Gibbs stumble through his house as he searches for a place to rest.

Tony realizes for the first time that his boss is only a man, a mere mortal who cannot cope with his own crushing losses.

Tony covers his face, thinking hard of Abby first, followed by Tim, then Ducky, finally Ziva.

When he finally peeks, he's still in the pitch-dark in his boss' basement. He sighs, following Gibbs' lead up the stairs. As he slides through his boss' dark house, Tony feels like he's trespassing into Gibbs' life.

He passes Gibbs' snoring figure, stretched out on an uncomfortable-looking couch. Tony waits a minute, watching his boss sleep off the bourbon. Under the light that filters through the blinds, Tony studies his boss' face, the features still tortured while he dreams.

Shaking his hand through his hair, Tony glides away and passes through the unlocked front door.

Tony apprehends that even though Gibbs seems to want to let people in, he's never known how. Pausing on the front porch, Tony watches the light snow that's started to fall. Against the burn of the street lamps, the heavy, fat flakes lazily drift to the asphalt.

He pulls his coat closer to himself, out of habit moreso than cold. While he shivers his body to attain some semblance of normality, Tony realizes Gibbs' omnipresence and omnipotence come at a grave price.

Covering his face with his hands, Tony tries again. His mind conjures Abby's sullen form, Tim's pained face and Ducky's hollow voice.

When he pulls his hand away, Tony stares blankly at the layer of snow that's accumulated on Gibbs' front steps. Hugging his jacket closer to himself, Tony doesn't even feel the wind's icy blast as he walks back to NCIS.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**3:08am – Tim McGee's Apartment – Silver Spring, MD –**

Tim blinks awake, finding himself still staring at the ceiling. Stretching to his side table, he smashes his silent alarm clock and climbs out of bed. In his pitch-dark apartment, he stumbles into the bathroom. Oblivious to the hour, he runs through his morning routine on auto-pilot.

While he showers, he scrubs the last of Tony's blood off his hands. Even though they're now spotless, he can still feel the stickiness on his fingertips.

He dresses slowly, pulling on his usual shirt and tie in the dark. Fingers combing his slick hair, he meanders into his kitchen to find breakfast. While he opens his pantry, he wonders why the nook smells like burnt plastic and bad shrimp. He doesn't see the liquified meal in his microwave.

Tim finds his regular box of dinosaur cereal, frowning deeply when he recalls how months after their visit that Tony and Kate mocked him for his breakfast choice. Pressing his lips together, he slides the container with the smiling Tyrannosaurs Rex into the trashcan and pulls out the box of adult bran-cereal that he bought for another surprise visit.

He fills a bowl, fairly certain that the grains are well-past their expiration date.

With a broken sigh, Tim goes into the fridge for milk, only to find the container empty. He was supposed to stop on the way home from work to pick some up the previous night. With the loss of a friend, the simple task became irrelevant. He sighs again, leaning against his counter while he works his way through the tasteless, dry meal.

Tim decides that he hates being an adult.

After the rest of his breakfast joins his childhood in the trash, he stumbles back into his darkened living quarters. Flicking on a light, he checks his watch and shakes his head at the time. There are still hours before work and he has no idea how to bide his time. Tim stares blankly at his computer, knowing he can't stomach his normal genre of game after what happened to Tony.

Tim's not entirely convinced he'll ever be able to touch them again.

He stares blankly at the furniture in his apartment, finally finding his desk. By his typewriter, a pile of neatly stacked pages rest. When he first joined the team, all their cases and gruesome discoveries gave him nightmares. With his dreams as uncomfortable as his waking minutes, he stopped sleeping for several weeks, only catching occasional naps on his desk and at the tail end of night. He started spending hours in front of his window, watching the darkness pass until the morning sunlight burned the night's demons away.

During a particularly painful case, he bought a typewriter in a secondhand store on a whim. One sleepless night, instead of watching the night slide past, Tim pounded out a haunting case's details with careful keystrokes. As soon as he finished, Tim found his first peaceful night's rest in months. Eventually, the rehashing of day's events became second nature. His collections grew into a manuscript where he gave the team a secret life.

Resting his hand on the smooth, cool pages, Tim stares at the place where Tony continues to live.

Tim knows he will never finish his book.

With a quiet sigh, he pulls his desk chair over to his shredder. Just like the night after Kate died, Tim carefully rereads every word, reliving every moment in his work before he lets the shredder consume them.

After a while, there's a pounding on his door. His neighbor shouts curses at him for some time, using ever expletive imaginable as well as many Tim's never heard before.

The hours pass. His neighbor leaves.

Night fades; the morning light peeks through the window.

The last of his words vanish before his eyes, once again Tony's life slides through his hands.

His alarm screams in his bedroom, Tim realizes that it's almost time to face the team.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

_So good? Bad? Something sorta in between?_

_As before, I hate to ask but please let me know how I'm doing._


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer : As always, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note : **_As always I'd like to thank the lurkers, readers, favoriters and followers. Extra thanks to everyone who's chimed in to let me know how I'm doing with avreview : _**_katrina2502, goodbye31bluesky, AgentD.6, Scat210, prince-bishop, ChrissyS, scousemuz1k, DS2010, jmsimgs, ladyaloysius, HSMSupernatural, _**_and _**_Guest - Laurie._**

_The words and support really help me keep going on this story. I feel like I've accidentally stumbled into quite dangerous territory._

_There's a hint at why Tony's still here in this one._

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**6:44am – In Front of NCIS Headquarters – Washington, DC –**

Sometime during Tony's long walk back to NCIS, the snow stopped falling, leaving an unblemished blanket in its wake. With a heavy heart, Tony trudges slowly through the Navy Yard back to the building that eventually grew into his second home.

Before he retreats to the bullpen, Tony pauses to admire the beauty of the fresh snow.

He always hated the precipitation, seeing it as nothing more than an inconvenience, a reason for accidents and lateness. Though as the he watches the morning light burn away the night, Tony wonders just how many other inconveniences he should have learned to appreciate.

The orange sun begins to peer over the horizon, replacing the inky nighttime skies with the delicate pink dawn.

Tony can't remember the last time he had a chance to see the sun rise. Usually, he'd catch nothing more than a glimpse of the sky's changing palette at the end of an overnight shift. Instead of enjoying the simplistic beauty, he would dread the start of yet another sleepless day.

Tony rubs his face, staring at the sun's reflection that ebbs across the waters of the Anacostia. When he glances down at the concrete walk to see a trashcan's shadow but nothing next to him, he sighs quietly and ducks through the doors into the building.

He finds a safety within the walls that he hasn't felt anywhere since his mother died.

He takes the stairs, figuring that Abby would likely be the first one into work, if she ever went home the previous night. When he exits the stairwell on her floor, he's surprised to hear a loud, upbeat jazz tune wafting through the halls. Tony does a double-take, making sure the forensic lab is still here.

As he enters the lab, the song switches to one even more up-tempo.

Just within the entrance, he freezes, studying the newest layout. It's fairly obvious to Tony that Abby's strengths lend themselves to science, not to interior decorating.

Lab tables are pushed against the assorted of techno-toys that Tony never could understand, his image is emblazoned on all the computer monitors, and there's a set of gothic-themed toys wearing black veils on the lab bench. When he slides into the lab, he doesn't notice Abby in the corner with the parasol she reserves for sunny days.

"Abby?" Tony asks.

For all the times he questioned her methods, he never grew tired of the offbeat elucidations. When she doesn't respond, he frowns deeply and runs his hand over the back of his head.

There's a trumpet line that blasts in the song. Abby finally swivels from her position in the corner, staring blankly out into the lab. With her stuffed hippo clutched to her chest, she dances to the drumbeat.

As the tune turns livelier, her motions become frenzied. Transfixed, Tony watches her pump her parasol towards the heavens. A smile touches her mascara-stained face for a brief second and she spins in a tight circle, throwing her sunshade out in a moment of actual revelry.

Its top catches a bottle of some unknown chemical on the lab bench. She finishes her twirl at the same moment that the bottle shatters, its dark brown liquid oozing across the floor.

The song ends, the sound of a skipping record echoes through the speaker. She closes her eyes, breathing slowly. Fresh tears follow the mascara trails that already mar her beautiful face.

She places her hippo on the lab bench, reaching after the remote.

"I can't do this, Tony," she hiccups, voice wavering. "I can't do this. I'm sorry. I know I promised_. I know_ _that I promised you this, but I just can't do it."_

Tony steps beside her, watching her carefully braid her pigtails like she does whenever she's nervous. It takes him a few long minutes to recall the conversation they had a few months after Kate's death.

When his first partner perished in a sniper attack, Abby spent nearly two weeks secluded in her lab. Barely able to function over the loss, the forensic scientist listened incessantly to traditional funeral dirges while she worked tirelessly to track Kate's killer.

When Tony finally worked up the courage to question the heartbreaking music, Abby explained the fascinating history of music-based funerals that she grew up with in Louisiana. Based on her experiences in her grand-uncle Jim Bob's funeral, his mourners played the dirges on the way to the cemetery and lively, upbeat tunes to celebrate the man's life on the way home.

Up until Abby found Kate's killer, the dirges continually pumped through the lab's speakers. When the news of Ari's own death found her ears, the uplifting tunes filled her lab and a smile finally graced her face once again. She told Tony that the music would allow Kate's spirit to move on, releasing her specter to seek out whatever great unknown came next.

Tony remembers how he asked Abby to forgo the dirges in the event of his untimely death. He only wanted her to celebrate his life, not grieve his loss.

He never intended for her to have to act on the request.

"I can't do this, Tony," Abby pleads again, glancing at the picture on his screen.

"I know, Abs," he murmurs.

Her tears run down her face, dripping slowly onto the lapel of her lab coat. Retrieving her hippo, she uses his back to wipe them away. When he voices his sympathies, both Abby and Tony laugh. She reaches for her remote again, pressing a few buttons. The soul-crushing laments of a funeral dirge waft through the air.

"I know I promised," she says, "but you know when we celebrate, it lets you move onto heaven. I'm just not ready to let you go yet. I just can't accept that you're really gone, Tony. You've been with me for years. All those times that you went out into the field, you always came back. We all knew it was dangerous, but you always came back."

"I haven't gone anywhere yet," he smiles, knowing that she can't hear him.

The fact that he knows he's still here comforts him.

"Do you remember the first thing you said to me?"

She pauses, waiting for a response that shouldn't come.

"Not a clue," Tony shrugs.

He can't pinpoint the moment that he met Abby. Her presence in this lab and his existence in this building are a constant in his life that he never experienced before this job.

" 'Got any tattoos?' " she giggles, brushing a new set of tears away from her cheek. "Like you ever had a chance to see them. Well, except this one," she points to the spider web on her neck, "and this one," she points to the smiley face on her finger. "Well, nevermind, you get the point."

He grins, nodding slowly.

"Just because I didn't have a chance doesn't mean I wasn't going to try. Though I'm glad that you didn't want to."

"I'm glad I didn't try, not like I didn't want to," she smiles tightly. "You were one of my best friends. Even if I never told you, I really hope that you knew. I could always count on you to make me smile, even on the worst day ever. Every day but today."

As she dissolves into tears again, Tony studies the trinkets on her lab bench.

"I can't do this again, Tony," she cries. "I don't know how I'm supposed to keep going without my team. I already lost Kate, now I've lost you. McGee's the only one I have left. How can I focus on my work when I know that he might never come home either?"

"I don't know, Abs."

"You always came home. I never thought there'd be a day that you wouldn't."

Pressing his lips together, Tony feels the unfamiliar ache in his gut again. He turns away, staring at some complicated machine in the corner. Its interface is dark. As he steps around the lab, he notices that all of her machines are dark.

Abby hasn't left them all off since the night Kate died.

Tony buries his face in his hands.

The realization hits him again.

He understands that it's no well-orchestrated prank when he reaches through the set of stuffed animals on the lab bench. Tony really is trapped just beyond the living world. Every part of him wonders what prevents him from moving on.

At this point, he'd even settle for an explanation. Or someone else to talk to.

Though as he stares back at Abby's hunched form still grasping her hippo, he knows he's not ready to leave them just yet.

"G-d, I don't know how I'm supposed to keep going. I can't keep losing people that I care about," she whispers, hugging her hippo to her chest.

Tony slides closer, studying the tattoos on the back of her neck.

"I'm still here, Abs."

He leans forward, placing a light kiss on her cheek. Shivering suddenly, she places her hand on the spot where Tony's lips grazed. As she begins to sob, Tony's heart breaks all over again.

"I know, Tony," she murmurs. "I miss you too."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**8:12am – Bullpen – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

Moving slowly into the bullpen, Tim keeps his eyes fixed on the rough carpet underneath his shoes. It takes all his energy to place one foot in front of the other on the way to his desk. As he passes by Tony's and Ziva's empty spaces, he accidentally glances at Tony's.

Tim winces visibly, closing his eyes while he exhales raggedly. The surface of his desk still remains exactly as Tony left it when Gibbs ordered them to follow up on their BOLO.

Right before, Tony - .

Clenching his fists, Tim drops his backpack and slides into his desk chair. He desperately tries to ignore the crippling solitude that fills the bullpen, powering up his computer so he can finish the report that chronicles his co-worker's death.

Protocol dictates that his report must be filed within 24 hours of the incident. When his paperwork is filed, the investigation into Tony's death can be closed out. The agency will find a replacement for Tony, reassign Tim to a new team, and start pushing Gibbs to solve cases again.

In due time, they will all move forward. He's not certain that he can accept that future.

Tim's trembling fingers run over the cool plastic of his keyboard while he tries to organize thoughts. Uncharacteristically sluggish, Tim strings together a barely coherent mash of written words. He sighs loudly, deleting his progress.

He starts over, watching the same sentence pop up on his screen.

A figure slides in front of his desk. He glances up at Ziva to see the surprising unease etched onto her exotic features. As she crosses her arms and shifts her weight uncomfortably, he forces a friendly smile.

Tim just wants to be left alone.

"How are you, McGee?" she asks, emotion creeping into her voice.

"Fine," he lies, turning his attention back to his computer.

"Perhaps you should take a few days of leave like Gibbs, yes?"

"I might. Just need to finish the incident report first."

When he mulls over the information about Gibbs' time away from NCIS, Tim shudders at the realization that his boss can't stand the sight of him. His fingers begin to pound the keys quickly and he watches lines of gibberish appear on his screen.

Ziva nods. Reaching forward, she places her hand on Tim's.

He stops typing.

"I am here when you are ready," she promises.

He presses his lips together, nodding while a tear treads down his cheek. When Ziva finally seems to grasp the damage she's doing, she withdraws to her desk. Tim leads forward and buries his head in his hands.

Tim mourns until he feels someone else's presence in front of his desk.

"Ziva, not yet, I'm just - ," he pleads, looking up to see Director Jenny Shepard waiting in front of his desk. "Director."

Sitting up straight in his chair, he blinks away the few tears that still remain in his eyes. While he starts back to his computer, she smiles sympathetically.

"Agent McGee," she says, "I'm surprised to see you back at the office today. Even Gibbs is taking -."

"Protocol says I have to file an incident report within -," he begins.

"Surely," she interrupts, smiling tightly, "in light of the situation, we can deviate a bit from protocol."

Tim shakes his head. Even when his world is ending, there is security in the consistency of procedure. Going through the well-documented, post-incident motions are all Tim has to hold onto at the moment.

He needs protocol.

Shepard nods slowly, turning back to her office.

"Agent McGee," she calls, waving her hand over her shoulder. "I think there's someone I'd like you to talk to."

Obediently, Tim trails Shepard to the conference room. She tries conversation, but he's too busy studying the well-worn carpet that leads the way. He counts the paces, all sixty eight of them.

When they enter the conference room, Tim notices a tall, dark-haired man lounging in one of the chairs behind the table. He rises from his seat, extending his hand towards Tim while the agent stares blankly at him.

"Director?"

"This is Nicholas Boer," she offers, gesturing towards the man. "He's a NCIS' clinical psychologist, specializing in grief counseling. We called him in to help anyone who might need to talk about Agent DiNozzo's death. I'll leave you two."

"Caught the red-eye in from San Diego. I haven't seen snow in a few years," Boer says conversationally.

When he gets no response from either one, Boer's easy smile fades. Tim stares at the floor. As Shepard disappears from the doorway, Tim slides into a chair and Boer does the same.

"So, Agent McGee, do you mind if I call you Tim?"

Tim shrugs.

"Okay, Tim. I'm Nick. Is there anything in particular that you feel like discussing?"

A tortured look passes over Tim's emotional face as he shakes his head. He stares at the specks of blood that he's sure are still on his hands. Even though there's a torrent of emotions that have raged within him since he received the news of Tony's death, he doesn't want to share those intimate thoughts with a complete stranger.

Tim wrings his hands, trying to stave off the anxiety that bubbles inside him.

Boer nods slowly, making a notation on a piece of paper.

"It's perfectly normal to feel guilt, Tim," Boer explains, turning his pen over in his hand. "You survived. Agent DiNozzo didn't. Anyone in your situation would feel guilty, that's completely okay. But you need to understand that _it's not your fault._"

"Not my fault," Tim laughs, glancing up incredulously. "Not my fault? I didn't call for back-up before we checked out the BOLO. We got separated because I wasn't paying attention. I thought I could arrest Ruiz on my own, but I couldn't. _Tony died protecting me_. _Of course it's my fault."_

As Tim bites his lip hard enough to prevent tears from streaming down his face, Boer makes another careful note on his paper.

"Tell me, Tim, what could have happened differently in there?"

He replays the entire situation in his head, forcing himself to relive the crack of the gunshot that cost Tony his life. He sees every moment, every mistake, every opportunity he had to act another way.

There was another way. There had to have been.

"I could have found Tony when we got separated. We could have arrested Ruiz together. I could have called for back-up. Ruiz could have shot - ."

The words spill out of his mouth before his brain can process them. When he realizes what he intends to say, Tim presses his hand to his lips.

"Could have shot who, Tim?"

A quiet settles over the pair for several long minutes while Tim studies the back of his hand.

He wonders how different everything would be if Ruiz ended his life. Sighing quietly, he leans back in his chair.

"Could have shot who, Tim?"

"Me," Tim whispers, face contorting in despair.

Boer raises his eyebrows, scribbling something on his paper. His dark eyes flick over Tim's broken features and the psychologist shakes his head.

"Do you really think you should have been shot instead?"

With no hesitation, Tim opens his mouth to respond. Before the words can form, Boer shudders violently. Climbing out of his chair, Boer rubs his hands over his shoulders and gives Tim a blank, panic-stricken stare.

"Are you okay?" Tim asks.

"Maybe I'm not used to the DC winter anymore, but did it just get really cold in here?" Boer responds, shivering uncontrollably as he slides towards the door.

Tim shakes his head, actually quite pleased with the temperature of the conference room for once. As Tim begins to respond to the original question, terror passes over Boer's face. His gaze fixes on something in front of him that Tim can't see.

He raises his eyebrow at the psychologist's apparent lapse in sanity.

Boer backs slowly to the door while Tim stands.

"Are you - ?"

"D-d-d-done," Boer rasps, icy breath visible as it escapes from his lips. "We're done."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

_Hate to ask, but how am I doing?_

_Must admit that I'm still uncertain about the story..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer : As always, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note :** _Thanks to all the readers, favoriters and followers out there. As always, I'd like to extend an extra thanks to _**_scousemuz1k, Aliiiiiice, prince-bishop, AgentD.6, zabani-chan, Scat210, diana teo, DarkWriter69, goodbye31bluesky, HSMSuperatural, Guest - Cassiopeia, _**_and _**_a Guest _**_for the reviews._

_I'm completely overwhelmed by the positive thoughts. Thank you all._

_I think there should be two or three more chapters before I wrap this up._

_For those of you following my case-fic _**_Incendiary_**_, the next chapter will be up last this week when I get everything edited again. Apologies for the delay. Inspiration seemed to hit unexpectedly for this one._

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**10:32am – VaDOT City Bus – Somewhere in Washington, DC –**

Pressing his face against the cold bus window, Tim numbly watches the rundown buildings on the city streets meander past. He sighs quietly, his breath creeps up the window, momentarily obscuring his view before it fades away. When the bus stops to take on new passengers, a pretty red-head slides into the seat next to him. Gazing over at her, Tim doesn't notice the broad smile on her face.

"Hey there, handsome, I'm Alicia," she grins, extending her hand to him.

He shakes his head before turning his attention back to the window. Her pretty face tightens in disgust and she chooses a new target, sliding into the seat behind Tim. As she introduces herself to that man, Tim irritatedly rolls his eyes at her excited introduction. When the driver maneuvers the bus away from the stop, Tim feels his motion sickness wage war against his stomach. He watches a late passenger shake his fist at the vehicle, debating whether the nausea might actually have something to do with his encounter with Boer.

When the man stumbled out of the conference room, Tim stole a peek at the notes that the psychologist jotted down during their talk. Most of Boer's maniacal scrawls were illegible except for that last phrase right before his breakdown.

_Unfit for duty._

Tim presses his lips together, shaking his head imperceptibly as the anguish bubbles inside him. In the span of less than a day, he's lost his friend and quite possibly the career for which he sacrificed everything else in his life.

He sighs again, staring blankly at the fog that envelopes the glass.

Tim didn't know how to take the revelation at first. He wasn't sure whether to be wounded or angry. For several long minutes, he stood stock-still, incapable of any motion or thought. His eyes fixed on that phrase until the words imprinted themselves on his heart.

_Unfit for duty._

He shredded Boer's notes until they were nothing more than miniscule pieces of paper, confetti for an unwanted celebration. With Boer's assessments ground into the well-worn carpet, Tim stormed through the bullpen without answering Ziva's earnest protests. Needing to feel the safety of the only person he still trusted, he bolted down the stairs until he hit Abby's floor.

Whenever he was upset, he'd always retreated to the comfort of the lab, to the comfort of her. Tim rushed into the forensics lab, just needing to have someone who might understand him. But when he saw Abby curled up on her futon, he couldn't disturb her. With that stuffed hippo Tony won her a few years ago at a carnival clutched to her chest, she looked finally peaceful in sleep. Though the mascara trails on her face let Tim know she'd felt almost as pained as him. Not needing to break her heart all over again, he sprinted out of the building and headed directly to the bus stop.

Four buses and several hours later, Tim has seen more of the city today than he has in the entire time he's lived in DC. With all the hours he puts in at work, he's never had the luxury of a city tour aside from the grimy crime scenes he visits with the team and the standard tourist fare.

The bus stops and Tim disembarks, hoping he's finally arrived at his intended destination. As he hugs his arms to himself, he wishes he thought to return the bullpen to grab his coat and backpack before he fled. Tim walks down the quiet residential street, slipping on the icy spots of last night's surprise snowfall. When he reaches an intersection, he stares at the street names, desperately trying to remember the address of the place he visited only once.

Tim picks a direction at random, studying the mid-century architecture with the spacious lawns as he continues down the street. When he finds the one whose walk and driveway are still covered in snow, Tim knows he's found the right house. Carefully picking his way up the walk, he takes the sagging stairs up to the completely empty porch. He presses his lips together, checking for a doorbell. When he doesn't find one, he pounds on the door and shivers violently as the winter wind cuts through his dress shirt.

No one comes and he peers through the window, not surprised to find the inside dark.

Just needing to try, Tim tests the knob. When the door opens, he's gobsmacked.

"Boss?"

Tim slides into the darkened interior of Gibbs' house. From what he remembers about his case-related midnight rendezvous last year, everything still looks the same. The space is spartan and functional, though he frowns as he passes the couch made up like a bed. He wonders whether his boss sleeps here every night. On the coffee table, there's a small, framed picture of a red-haired woman and a little girl who closely resembles Gibbs. When he realizes that his boss has already lost a child once over, Tim closes his eyes and fends off the tears.

Bracing himself for the looming conversation, he finds his way down to Gibbs' basement.

"Boss?" he tries again.

He hits the bottom of the stairs, discovering Gibbs seated against the hull of a boat while he whittles a piece of wood. Tim steps off the landing and Gibbs glances up with unfocused eyes.

"McGee, didn't expect to see you," Gibbs nods, dropping his attention to the wood in his hands.

"B-b-b-boss, I-I-I n-n-need to talk to you," Tim stutters, finding a stool. As the nervous habit makes its first appearance in years, he cringes, knowing he sounds as overwhelmed as he feels.

"Don't feel like it."

Tim watches his boss run his knife expertly over the piece of wood. Gibbs reaches after the jar of bourbon by his leg, takes a swig and passes it to Tim. Without questioning, he downs the rest; the fire burns all the way to his stomach.

"How do you drink this stuff?"

"Just swallow it," Gibbs shrugs.

The alcohol kicks in, finally allowing Tim to relax for the first time since he heard the news about Tony. The pair rest in silence for a long time while Gibbs fashions his piece of wood into what Tim thinks might be a mermaid or a one-legged woman.

"L-l-l-look, b-b-bboss," he starts, swallowing hard when Gibbs stares him down. "I'm sorry about Tony. I-I-I lost m-m-my - ."

"Rule 6," Gibbs growls.

Tim drops his gaze to his hands, surprised to see a fleck of blood still on his finger. Over the past day, he's scrubbed his hands raw but every time he checks, he always seems to find a spot that he missed. He rubs it away.

Tim nods slowly, feeling his eyes well again. When he bites his lip, he's unable to stop the few tears that slip down his face. Everything that happened is his fault and while he knows that all too well, no one will accept it as he has.

"B-b-b-boss, I - ," he begins again.

"Tim, not now," Gibbs interrupts, misery tingeing his voice. "_Not. Now._ As my senior field agent, please listen, just go home."

At Gibbs' words, Tim's head snaps up.

"Boss? I don't want - ."

_"Doesn't matter what you want, Tim. You do what my team needs."_

Tim jumps to his feet, knocking the stool into the workbench behind him. For several long beats, he stares down at his boss' activity on the piece of wood. Ever since the revelation of the unwelcome promotion, Gibbs' whittling became rougher and more agitated. His boss hacks away at the careful detail of the carving's face, stripping her of the careful smile.

"Go home," Gibbs orders, not looking up from his project.

Crossing his arms, Tim nods slowly. He stops holding back his tears.

"Boss, I'm sorry," he blurts out, darting up the stairs when his boss doesn't respond.

As he numbly retraces his steps out of the basement and to the outside, he pauses on Gibbs' porch. When he finally notices the heavy snow falling, he frowns deeply. Pulling his arms closer to himself, he heads to the bus stop.

His attempt at closure only pressed salt in his open wounds.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**12:03pm – Autopsy – NCIS Headquarters, Washington, DC –**

Tony waits in the hall just outside the morgue. As he stares at the tip of the gurney that he can see from his position, he knows that he's not ready to find out that he's really dead. When he heard that his body arrived at NCIS, he rushed down the stairs, planning to see himself. But now that he realizes it will force him to accept the situation, he's not sure if he'll ever be prepared.

With a loud sigh, Tony runs his hand over the back of his head. After his talk with Abby in her lab, he took another tour through NCIS to keep himself occupied. When he finally saw Tim for the first time since the hospital, it broke his heart to see the dark circles under his junior agent's eyes.

Heavy-lidded and sluggish, Tim looked like he hadn't slept all night.

With sick curiosity, Tony snuck into the meeting with the bereavement counselor. Even though he knew Tim would probably feel guilty over his death, Tony hadn't expected him to say half the things he had. Tony stood in the corner, watching his junior agent fight back tears while Boer continued to torment him with more questions.

When Tim started to say that he should have died in his place, Tony yelled himself hoarse at the stupidity of the suggestion. Though as the tears slipped down the junior agent's face, Tony knew the younger man hadn't heard a word. Tony peeked over Boer's shoulder at his notes, snickering at the suggestion that Tim was unfit for duty. Of course, he wouldn't ready for duty the day after watching his partner die. Tony knew if the interview had been allowed to continue, the onus that the psychologist's recommendation could cost Tim his career.

Channeling all the frustration over the experience and Tim's tormented interview, Tony focused his anger onto the unsuspecting Boer. As he screamed and kicked at the psychologist, Tony was shocked when he managed to drive the man out of the room.

The look on his face made Tony think Boer had seen a ghost.

By the time Tony realized what Boer had actually seen was him, Tim had already ran right through him. When Tony noticed the shreds of Boer's notes on the floor, he knew Tim must not have liked what he read.

As Tony notices Donald Mallard pass by the autopsy doors, he inhales slowly and pushes himself through the autopsy doors. When he sees the body bag on the autopsy gurney, he covers his face with his hands.

He knows that it's him.

Mallard pauses at the head of the bag, breathing deeply before he unzips it halfway. Shaking it loose over the corpse, Tony watches his ashen face appear through the hole.

"Ah, now my dear boy, that's much better now, isn't it?" Mallard asks, leaning closer to the corpse's ear.

Tony approaches his body, shell shocked at its presence in the morgue. For all the times he eavesdropped on Mallard's conversation with the dead, he never thought he'd have a chance to overhear a conversation with himself.

"I never could stand the thought of any of you in there," Mallard continues, shrugging slightly. "You know, Anthony, you would think it grew easier with Caitlin, but it doesn't. There is something about each loss that makes it and each individual's progression through it unique."

Tony presses his lips together, leaning past Mallard to examine the cadaver's square jaw and angled nose. While he looks different on the slab, Tony recognizes the face that stared back at him every time he ever looked in the mirror.

Death does not become him.

"You know, my dear boy, I will say that I always did enjoy your presence. Your sense of humor was always wonderful. Your taste in movies, impeccable. I never could come to take your fashion advice though, Anthony," Mallard smiles, touching a finger to his black bow tie.

Tony shakes his head, listening to the medical examiner's words.

"Armani's the only thing my father taught me well," he grins, studying Mallard's tight features.

"Your favorite ties just do not do me justice like these. I think I shall wear black for quite some time, Anthony," Mallard nods. "I feel a bit like Abigail, at the moment. Perhaps we will all dress more like her while we mourn you."

He shakes his head again, unable to accept that his friends will grieve for him. Leaning forward on the gurney, Mallard nods at the corpse.

"You know, Anthony, mourning is a very normal aspect of English culture. In Victorian times, it was considered a custom for upper class women to wear heavy black clothing with dark veils. A widow's weeds, they wore. It was common to wear mourning clothes for up to four years after someone's death or even the rest of the mourner's natural life. You should - ."

Out of words for once, Mallard runs his fingers over the edge of his black bow tie. As he exhales slowly and rocks on his heels, Tony suddenly realizes that he has stared the autopsy yet.

The doors to the morgue swish open and an attractive brunette enters. She shrugs off her coat, waves to Mallard and heads into the autopsy office.

"I hope you understand, Anthony," Mallard whispers, leaning next to the corpse's ear. "There are three people on this earth whose bodies I am unable to disrupt. You are one of them."

The brunette approaches Mallard. With her curves now obscured by bulky green scrubs, she holds her arms out to the aging medical examiner. They embrace and Tony glances between the two, shocked.

"You have a girlfriend, Ducky?"

"I came as soon as you called. I am so sorry about your friend," she frowns, hugging Mallard tightly. "Why wouldn't county complete the autopsy?"

"Official NCIS investigation, Jordan, Dr. Holliday decided it would be prudent not to intervene," Mallard explains.

"I understand," she nods, looking over the corpse. "Wow, Tony was young, wasn't he? What happened?"

"Shot while saving his teammate."

Tony rubs the back of his head, realizing that's how he'll likely be remembered.

"Well, that's noble. There aren't many people who would die saving someone else," Jordan nods, reaching after a surgical gown. "Are you sure you - ?"

Mallard shakes his head, taking a step back.

"Is Jimmy - ?"

"No, he won't be assisting you today," Mallard shakes his head again.

"Not a problem," Jordan smiles sadly. "I'll call Grace. Will you stay?"

"I can't. There's just too - ."

The ache in Tony's chest starts again and he touches his eyes, feeling the burn of tears that have never been able to fall.

"I understand. I'll see you tonight, Donald. My place?"

Mallard nods slowly, placing his hand on the corpses shoulder and squeezing hard. Without another word, the medical examiner turns, pulls on his hat and walks out of autopsy. Jordan ties the surgical gown over her voluptuous frame and makes a quiet call on her cell phone. She dons her mask and gloves. With a wistful glance after Mallard, she reaches for the scalpel.

When she places the blade on the corpse's chest, Tony yells, begging her not to break his skin. He cannot be dead. The body on the slab cannot be his. She makes her first cut from the top of the sternum down to his belly button while he buries his face behind his hands. By the time she adds the releasing flaps, his voice is gone, nothing more than a faint whisper.

But when no one can hear him anyway, he knows it doesn't matter.

As she places the blade onto the gurney, he accepts reality.

Covering his face with his hands again, he wanders out of autopsy.

He cannot watch a complete stranger dissect him.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

_Hope this is still going okay? Pretty far outside my case-fic comfort zone with this piece..._


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer : As always, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note : **_Just wanted to say thanks to all the readers, favoriters and followers. Extra thanks to _**_DS2010, jmsings, scousemuz1k, diana teo, Aliiiiiice, Precious Pup, gibblette, Scat210, goodbye31bluesky, AgentD.6, sopmire, and HSMSupernatural._**

_Thank you for the reviews and positive thoughts. Really helping me finish this story. This is turning out to be so much more difficult than I ever thought to write. So thank you all. Overall, I'm not sure how I feel for the story so far. Angst might not be my thing, as I really don't think this story is any good. I think my future lies in casefics._

_Two chapters of _**_Incendiary_**_ made it up this weekend, if you missed them._

_Next one will wrap this one up. Tony wakes up in that chapter, promise._

_Enjoy guys, thank you for sticking with me._

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**3:38pm – VaDOT City Bus – Silver Spring, MD –**

When the bus grinds to a halt, Tim jumps out of his seat and slides to the front. Passengers mill around, pushing their way past him as they drop off and scramble on. He stops dead at the top of the stairs and checks the location of the stop on the sign, wondering just how many blocks it will take him to walk home from here. The frigid air blows through the open door, biting through the thin material of his dress shirt.

Tim hugs his arms to his chest, the simple action neither consoling nor warming.

He forgets exactly how long it's been since he stumbled out of Gibbs' house, crushed and alone. Heart heavy at the news of his unwelcome promotion by fire, he wandered through the ankle-deep slush to the bus stop, climbing onto whatever vehicle waited to carry him away. He didn't even bother blinking the tears from his eyes to check its destination.

As far as he was concerned, he didn't need one.

Six buses and all the cash in his wallet treated him to a completely unnecessary tour of Northwest DC.

"Hey, man, get off or sit down. Those your options, pick one," the burly driver snaps.

Tim blinks, surprised to find that he guards the pay station. When he slips out of the way, an elderly woman calls her appreciation. He pauses at the top of the stairs again, studying the buildings and the cross streets.

He realizes he has no idea where he is.

"Are we anywhere near 7th and Lennox?" Tim asks.

"No way, man, you on the wrong bus."

The driver puts his hand on the door control, staring at Tim to make a decision. To disembark or continue his journey to places unknown, he can't seem to choose. He examines the top of his shoes, mixed with salt the black leather takes on a strange speckled appearance.

"Co - ," the driver starts.

"Lennox NW is about five blocks south of here," the elderly woman volunteers.

From her position in the front seat, Tim can't see anything but her hair over the divider. He raises his hand to wave his thanks, hoping that she'll see it, and clambers off the bus. Before he even touches the sidewalk, the driver slams the door and drives away.

Tim figures the man didn't want to let him change his mind.

Tim draws his arms tighter to his chest, unable to protect himself from the frigid blasts of wind. For some reason, he's always thought the days were supposed to get warmer as they progressed. He always thought the sun's rays got captured by the different layers of the stratosphere, increasing the temperature as the day marches on. It's something that he learned so long ago, he can't seem to remember its origin.

Some parts of science come to him as natural as breathing.

Though as he slides on the slushy sidewalk, his dress shoes lending no traction, Tim realizes there are many things in science, and in life, that he's been wrong about. He wonders how he's never managed to realize that days can actually get colder, not only warmer. Rules and principles are not concrete, merely thoughts designated as laws by mortal men seeking divine explanation. In this way life, so rarely, mirrors science. Tim shakes his head, it's something so basic that when he actually stops to thinks about it, he understands.

Science reflects life, and life science. For so long, he's tried to assign laws to his life, conform it the way he would a scientific experiment. When the wind crashes into him, freezing him to the bone, he knows he's been wrong in his approach. There are too many variables, uncontrolled parameters, unbridled entropy.

Life is an imperfect experiment, an unrestrained test in an irrepressible setting.

Tim craves simplicity, the perfect cause and effect of very elementary research.

It's like how Gibbs reacted after Tony's death. His grief was guttural, a feral response to the loss of a loved one. His natural reaction to run, hide, sulk and drift away until the wounds healed and the pain subsided.

Tim doesn't understand why he thought it should be more complex than that. He can't fathom why he thought Gibbs would welcome him with open arms after Tony's passing, comfort him like a father would and allow him to bear the burden. Gibbs is neither his father, nor his friend. In his sightless anguish, He forgot that the man is his boss and Tim, as the subordinate, is made to follow orders.

Tim has only ripped the scab off Gibbs' partially open wound and pressed salt into torn flesh, a hypothetical act of mercy that only reignites the agony.

When he finally finds Lennox Street, he rakes his icy hand over the back of his head, the digits barely feeling his hair underneath them. He heads in the direction of his apartment building, shaking his head as the tears start to well to his eyes again.

One tear traipses down his cold cheek, leading the way for the rest to follow.

He continues down the deserted street, thankful that he's alone save for the snow beneath his feet.

Tim rubs his nose on his sleeve, continuing to remind himself of all the times that he's sought to conform life to science's principles. He thinks about how he thought he'd actually earn the promotion to senior field agent he's always wanted. Tim knows it should have been like an experiment, hard work creating the expected results.

When he relives the reason for the unexpected outcome, he hiccups, shuddering as he fails to quell the tears that come.

Pure chaos.

From some inane reason, Tim always thought Tony would be awarded his own team in some exotic beach-front location, leaving Gibbs short a senior agent. He always believed that, after years of loyalty and service, Gibbs would turn to him, the junior agent, and bestow a well-earned promotion.

The day of his promotion did, in fact, come like he'd always hoped.

Though it did not come with a whisper of gratitude, instead with the crack of a gunshot and the end of a life. Tim still feels Tony's blood on his hands.

Tim shakes his head, trying to chase his thoughts away. He doesn't want to believe that the only reason he's senior field agent now because he breathes and Tony grows cold. This was never the way that he'd imagined his life, the career for which he sacrificed most of his adult life. He always thought hard work would earn him success. Though now he feels as though his work allows him to fill a void, a space saver to take pressure off Gibbs while he mourns his loss. It doesn't matter whose senior field agent, as long as there's someone to run the cases, track leads, and run the team until Gibbs finds someone to replace him.

Tim wishes he could be wrong about Gibbs' feelings towards him. But he knows, _he just knows_. He chalks it up to his own gut instincts, thought he can't grasp why it failed him before. When he buries his face in his hands, he walks clear past his apartment building. He makes it half a block away before he realizes his mistake, doubling back and ducking into the door of his home.

Not bothering to check the mail, Tim trudges up the stairs, each step takes every ounce of energy he still possesses. He retreats into his apartment, leaning against the door. He studies the contents of his living room; the late afternoon light's shadows stretch across the floor, occupants he's never met before.

Tim is an intruder in his own home.

He runs his hands over his face, shocked to still feel the ice in his fingers. When he pulls them away, he's transfixed by the way the sunlight streaks through the window panes. Tim moves over to the window, ignoring the shadow that grows behind him. It stretches for the door, almost knowing Tim's intentions before he does.

Tim opens the window, feeling the puff of frigid air blast his cheeks. It sucks the life from his lungs. Without even thinking, he pushes his screen up and leans onto the windowsill. He watches the cars glide past on the street below. The heads of a few pedestrians, office workers stealing away before their day is officially done, bob below him.

Tim wonders, for barely a second, if the fall from his third floor walk-up could kill him.

"Tim! No!"

The shout rips through Tim as a pair of hands grabs his shoulders, flinging him into his bookshelf. When he slams into it, he feels the massive object tremble behind him as he falls to his knees. Knowing he has no fight left, Tim raises his hands and prepares to ask the assailant what he wants.

The man could take anything; at this point Tim knows he's lost everything of value.

"Whoa, I didn't expect that to happen. You okay, Probie?"

Tim glances up to see Tony DiNozzo standing by the window, smiling tightly. At the sight of his former senior field agent, Tim's face pales. His mouth opens, lips move but he cannot bring himself to ask Tony if he's really dead. He blinks hard, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands before staring blankly at Tony. Another pained smile stretches Tony's into an uncomfortable caricature of his former self. He crosses the room, extending his hand. When he sees his fingers glide through Tony's palm, his breath hitches. Tim slams his eyes closed, trying to figure out why he'd hallucinate his former teammate.

He feels like he's in a movie.

This must be how Tony used to live.

"Can you see me, Tim?" He opens his eyes, nodding slowly. "Oh thank G-d. How are you?"

Tim presses his lips together, not sure how he expects to answer the question. It's his fault that his senior field agent is dead, the team is in shambles, his boss can't stand the sight of him and he's been deemed unfit for duty by a man who doesn't even know him. While he was having an awful day before, he thinks talking to his mind's hallucination probably makes it even worse.

His gaze flicks up to Tony, he shrugs noncommittally.

"Well - ."

"Tony," Tim interrupts, finally finding his voice, "you're dead."

"Yeah, thanks, McGee, I hadn't figured that one out on my own."

Tim visibly flinches, dropping his gaze to his hands. In some feeble attempt to keep his sanity, he wrings his fingers, finally regaining the feeling through the action.

"I-I-I d-d-d-didn't m-m-mean it like that. I-I-I-I j-j-j-just d-d-d-d-don't k-k-k-know w-w-why - ."

"I'm still here? Yeah, I've been trying to figure that one out too. At least you can see me, for now."

The way Tony says his last thought clenches Tim's stomach. He's not sure if he's strong enough to survive the loss all over again. Tears well to his eyes, he coughs and tries to swallow them. Tony crouches in front of Tim, staring into the younger man's eyes. Even though he's slightly transparent, Tony would be proud of how he looks in a suit by some designer the junior agent probably can't pronounce.

"Are you okay, Tim?" Tony asks, concern evident on his face.

Tim starts to nod, but his body betrays him with the quaking sobs that start.

"You're dead, Tony, you're dead and it's my fault. It's my fault Tony, if I'd just paid attention, you'd still - . If I had just - . Or maybe if I'd - . G-d, Tony, it should have been - ."

No longer able to fight the tears, Tim lets them come.

"No way, Tim. No freaking way," Tony says quietly. "You think I'd let you get killed on my watch? You got overtaken by a suspect, not your fault. There was no way either of us could have predicted that. Ruiz was going to kill someone, it was only a question of if it was going to be me or both of us. If it ever came to it, it always would have been me or both of us. I'm senior agent. There's no way I'd let you die, not after - ."

When Tony's voice falters, Tim finally meets his eyes. He starts to speak, but Tony continues.

"You really think Gibbs would let me come back empty-handed?"

"Gibbs won't look at me," Tim admits, flush creeping onto his cheeks.

"It takes time. He will, he's lost a lot of men over his career. He loses, he mourns, he moves on. He just likes to drown his sorrows in bourbon and yell at people. He'll crawl out of his basement and detox when he's ready. Best to leave him alone until he's finished his boat," Tony nods. "Though I'm not sure what you're doing Mc - ."

"Drowning."

"Yeah, I can see that," Tony agrees, gesturing to Tim's rumpled clothes and tear stained face.

"I just can't - ."

"You'll move on," Tony promises, sitting back on his knees.

"Tony, I had a meeting with a shrink. He thinks I'm - ."

"Unfit for duty. Yeah, you should have heard what he told the director about the ghosts in the conference room. Talk about a headcase. I don't think his assessment should carry any weight."

"That was you?" Grinning, Tony nods at Tim's question. "But then wouldn't there be a ghost in the conference room?"

Tony presses his lips together in careful consideration, finally shrugging at Tim's thought.

"Okay, I'll give him that one. But he said, ghosts, plural. It was just me, so yes, there was _a_ ghost in the conference room. He's still wrong about how many ghosts and he's wrong about you. So I wouldn't worry about what he told the director."

Feeling a weight lift off his back, Tim leans back against the bookshelf.

He sighs.

"I thought Kate's death was hard, but yours? G-d, I don't know even know where to start. I'm going to be the only one left. Abby'll put me in a bubble. You were always here to point me in the right direction. Where do I even start? What do I even do? I'm not sure I can cope with losing more teammates. Gibbs, you, Ziva, agents are built for that. I'm not sure I can. I don't know if - ."

When Tony simply shrugs, Tim raises his eyebrow in surprise. He doesn't seem to understand what Tony's thinking.

"Then don't," he offers.

"What do you mean?"

"Quit the team. If you can't handle losing another teammate, quit the agency. Transfer to that cushy job in cybercrimes and become king of the basement dwellers. You don't have to do this, you choose to. It's your life to what you want with. But you've got a lot of promise, Tim. It'd be a damn shame for you to throw it away. Or out the window."

Tim draws his knees to his chest, nodding slowly as he mulls over Tony's words. When he realizes that he actually has the choice to walk away, slide out of NCIS and never return, he exhales, the weight of his burden pulling from his chest. Tim finally finds solace, understanding that his future is his choice.

He knows Tony's right.

"Thank you. For everything," he murmurs, smiling at Tony.

"You're welcome, Probster," Tony nods, starting to fade away.

Tim hiccups, feeling fresh tears spring to his eyes. He shakes his head and stares at his senior field agent's fleeting form. All he needs is a few more minutes, just a little more time. All he's ever needed was more time.

"Don't forget to find a girl and have some mini-McGoobers. You're suited for it," Tony grins. "Redecorate your apartment, for G-d's sake, and uh, uh, um yeah, good luck with Gibbs. Learn how to duck those headslaps. They'll kill your brain cells!"

When Tony's form is completely gone, his voice echoes in a quiet whisper that's spirited away by the cold breeze. Tim sags against the bookshelf and smiles at his living room, feeling for the first time in days like he's pulled his head above water.

"Thank you," he mutters.

Tim stays in his spot on the floor by the bookshelf. He listens to the cars slide past in the evening rush hour and feels the frigid air sneak in through his open window as the day ebbs away. He watches the sun's rays stretch as far as they can before they retreat, making way for the moonlight to fill his living room with an eerie glow.

While the shadows escape their recesses, creeping their way across his home, Tim waits for Tony to return.

Sometime before the start of a new day, he falls asleep on the floor, no longer alone.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

_Hopefully, this one went okay?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer : As always, I own nothing.**

**Author's Note : **_Huge thanks to everyone who's favortied, followed and read this story so far. Also thank you to _**_DS2010, Rogue Tomato, CherryIce1988, Lister4eva, Crawcolady, lanteaddicted, scousemuz1k, HSMSupernatural, Precious Pup, AgentD.6, sopmire, angelscatie, diana teo, _**and **_Guests - Cassiopeia, LAG and anonymous._**

_I appreciate the support and your kind words. I still think this is one of my less interesting stories, but I digress and will allow you to form your own opinions._

_Sincerest apologies to anyone that I've made cry...that has never been my intention._

_Not quite finished yet. I need a full chapter for the reunion so this ended up as a standalone. Again, it will be finished. I just don't have a schedule as I'm not one to rush through a story just to get it done._

_Next chapter of _**_Incendiary _**_will likely be up tomorrow._

_Tony wakes up, explanations after the chapter._

_Enjoy._

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Thursday, February 17, 2005 – 4:52am – Tim McGee's Apartment – Silver Spring, MD –**

Rooted to his spot by the window, Tony watches his junior agent sleep soundly on the hardwood floor. Curled up with his back against the bookshelf, Tim breathes quietly, his inhalations scarcely audible over the world outside. A car passes by, its headlight briefly illuminating Tim's face. Muscles slack and lips parted as he sucks in a breath, Tin props his head on his hand. Tony realizes that it's the first time in days that the younger man looks completely undisturbed.

He has finally found peace.

Tony crosses the room, sliding around the furniture out of an unnecessary habit. He picks his way through the blackness until he finds an old writing desk and sinks down into its chair. Barely visible under the light that peeks through the blinds, Tony makes out the ancient typewriter and sheet of paper still trapped in its spool. With the rest of the desk empty, he wonders if he's found the beginning of a story Tim started to tell.

He reaches after the page, his fingers passing through the crisp paper. Surprisingly desperate to find out the conclusion of Tim's narrative, Tony sits further forward until he catches the line in a strip of light that cascades through the blinds.

The words he reads on the page break his heart all over again.

_Agent Tommy DeLuca lived a hero._

Tony slumps back in the chair. He runs his hand over his face, feeling the itch in his eyes start again. Desperate to scratch the sensation away, he rubs the heels of his hand against them. One tear manages to escape, traipsing its way down his face. Tony shakes his head at the unwanted companions, they haven't visited him since the night his mother died.

He glances back to Tim's sleeping form. When a frigid breeze blows through the window, Tim shivers violently and pulls his knees tighter to his chest. Before he relaxes again, his breathing hitches.

"Really, Probie? You base a character on me and call him Agent Tommy? Where's your imagination anyway? No space for one in that brain of yours, huh? Watch, next I'll find out you called Gibbs, Mr. Pibbs."

Tony rolls his eyes and laughs half-heartedly. Tim's response comes in a quiet snore.

Leaning forward on his knees, Tony watches Tim rest.

The hours tick away.

The cars drive past with increasing regularity, their headlights slipping across the room and brightening Tim's tranquil features. The first specks of morning slip through the window, sweeping away the twilight's shadows. While the night outside melts away into the pink and orange of dawn, Tim continues to sleep under Tony's protective gaze.

The sub's rays invade Tim's apartment, finding their way into every recess until the residues of night have no place to hide. Defeated once again, the evening retreats to bide its time for another opportunity.

Tony studies his junior agent, a capable man who's never believed himself so.

Somewhere in the adjacent room, an alarm shrieks for attention, an office worker's battle cry to wage war on the day. Still slumped on the floor, Tim rolls himself to his back. He exhales forcefully, breath dispersing like a specter.

One of Tim's neighbors pounds on the front door, yelling expletives that even Tony hasn't learned yet. By the time the alarm's done screaming, Tony has peeked through the door at the angry man. It takes Tony one large step to slide through both the door and the man. Silent for once, the neighbor blinks slowly and pulls his bathrobe tighter. The man shudders and wanders to his home, completely stunned.

Tony smiles tightly, passing back into his partner's apartment. Settling into the desk chair all over again, he continues to watch over Tim's sleep.

He realizes there are still so many things that he's left unfinished and unsaid.

Tim's body suddenly jumps. He bolts upright, blinking owlishly at the bright light filtering through his window. When he checks his watch, he mumbles a curse. Jumping to his feet, he stumbles to the window and slams it closed. Not bothering to even change or eat, Tim starts to rush out of his apartment.

When he hits the door, he pushes his hand against the door frame and stares back to the window.

"Thank you, Tony," he murmurs, wiping a tear that materializes on his cheek.

Without another word, Tim hurries down the stairs onto the street. Under the mid-morning sun, he heads to the bus stop to wait for one. Tony trails behind him, knowing full well that Tim's heading to work in the middle of the day. A pretty blonde slides next to them a few minutes later. She looks through Tony, smiling at the junior agent. For a split second, he forgets and starts to ask her name.

When he sees the blush that creeps on Tim's cheeks, Tony remembers what is now normal.

"Go for it, Tim!" Tony advises, the tone of his voice betraying his words' meaning. He playfully taps through Tim's shoulder.

The junior agent suddenly stiffens, pulling his coat closer to his chest. His eyes widen in disbelief and he swivels to the spot where Tony stands. For a second, he believes he's visible again. But when the junior agent sighs quietly, his shoulders slouching, Tony knows that Tim still can't see him.

"Hey, I don't usually do this, but I'm Emma," the blonde grins, extending her hand to Tim.

"Tim," he nods.

They wait in an uncomfortable silence for several minutes, each of them checking the directions they expect to travel. The bus pulls up and Tim embarks, waving politely to Emma. By the stricken look on his face when he turns away from her, Tony knows that's all he's capable of at the moment. Tim slides into one of the seats and Tony plops down next to him.

Tim watches the world pass them by.

"You know, you could have at least gotten her phone number, Probie," Tony rambles. "She was cute, not quite my league, but she'd have done okay for you."

Tony knows that Tim can't hear him, but he doesn't care. He finds the solace in his words, even if he's the only one who can listen. By the time they reach NCIS, Tony has given Tim play-by-play advice on how to court the most attractive woman. The junior agent takes the elevator to their familiar floor, completely oblivious to the newest tirade on how to survive Ziva's mood swings and how to interact with Gibbs when there's no coffee.

The doors to the elevator swing open and Tony watches Tim head into the bullpen. With every step that he takes, Tim seems to discover his way again. His back straightens, his motions becomes more fluid. Even though the area is empty, he still heads to his desk.

Before he drops into his chair, Tim glances over at Tony's empty desk.

"Sorry, Probie, you can't have it. It's still mine," Tony states, almost surprised by Tim's miraculous transformation.

The junior agent places his backpack to the floor and steps over to Tony's desk, mesmerized by something. When he follows Tim over, Tony frowns at how the top of his desk still looks exactly the way he left it. There's nothing particularly special about the cup of pens, the loose papers, that spitball straw half-hidden under his keyboard or the copy of last week's reports ripped into shreds for said spitballs.

Tony crosses his arms and sighs. Seeing his desk as an outsider, he realizes there was nothing great about the space that was once his refuge, his oasis to the monotony of the real world. Even though it was part of NCIS property, Tony thought of it as one of the few items that truly belonged to him.

Tim slides into Tony's desk chair, pulling open the top drawer.

"Et tu, Probie? I'm still here. I haven't even been gone a week and you're already after my stuff. I'd expect this from Ziva and Ducky. Maybe Abby and quite possibly even Gibbs. But you? Come on."

Tony glides behind Tim, watching him rifle through the drawer. Past the inkless pens and loose papers, boundless candy bars and never-ending spitball straws, Tim reaches into the back-most corner. Buried deep under the flotsam of Tony's work life, Tim pulls out a tarnished silver medal on a chain.

When Tim holds it up, Tony recognizes it as the St. Anthony medal that his mother gave him the day before she died. With its surface rubbed almost smooth, the relief of the saint is nothing more than a faceless smear. She always told him that if he ever lost his way all he had to do was run his finger over his father's namesake and he'd point Tony home.

Tony rubs his thumb against his fingers like he always did when the medal was in his hands.

"St. Anthony," Tim says, turning it over. "Patron Saint of Lost Things. Do you think I count, Tony?"

"Lost things, Probie, not hopeless cases," Tony retorts, partially out of habit.

"I hope you don't mind. I just - ," Tim pauses, slipping the medal around his neck. "I know how you use to look at this when you thought we didn't see you."

Tony's chest clenches again.

"Just take care of it," he murmurs.

Tim presses the medal against his heart.

"I promise I'll take care of it."

Tim closes his eyes, face contorting with pain before he breathes deeply and it vanishes. Without another word, Tim moves back to his desk and starts to unpack his bag.

Gibbs marches into the bullpen, gaze fixed on the threadbare carpet beneath his feet. Eyes red and resolve broken, he glances dully over at the younger man. Simultaneously, Tim looks at him and leaps out of his chair.

Both of them stare at each other for several long seconds.

"Hey boss. I uh - ," Tim starts.

"You okay, McGee?"

Unable to actually answer the question, Tim nods slowly.

"How about you, boss?"

"Fine," Gibbs lies.

When he notices the pile of personnel folders on his desk, Gibbs retrieves his trashcan from the floor. Rage smolders dimly in his eyes as he sweeps the papers into the trashcan. While he thrusts the can back to the floor, Tony grins, knowing there's already a gifted agent to take his place.

Tony doesn't know that Gibbs can never truly replace him.

"Come on, McGee, we need you in MTAC," Gibbs orders, waving his hand over his shoulder.

Gibbs races out of the bullpen, heading for the stairs. Tim steps into the aisleway, pressing the medal to his chest as he does so.

"I will miss you, Tony," he whispers.

Blinking away the sting in his eyes again, Tony tries to smile as best he can.

"Me too, Tim, me too," he says.

By the look on Tim's shocked face, Tony knows his subordinate can see him again. He starts to speak, but a tiny orb of white light over Tim's shoulder distracts him. The light bobs and sways, growing steadily larger as it approaches Tim.

"Tony, you're back? Boss!? It's Tony! _Boss_!"

Tony tries to speak, acknowledge Tim and Gibbs, let them know that he is still here and has yet to move on. But the way the light twirls he just can't seem to pull his attention away. Tim begins to talk again, his mouth moving but producing no words. The light swells, swallowing Tim first before it encompasses the bullpen. Tony's eyes slam closed to prevent him from staring at its brilliance as the light burns through him. Even though it is merely energy, he swears that he can feel it makes its course through his entire body.

It grants him a serenity he never knew in life.

He struggles to finally open his eyes.

Before he can appreciate anything he sees, Tony melts away.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo_

**Tuesday, February 15, 2005 – 5:02pm - George Washington Hospital – Washington, DC –**

Electricity shoots through Tony's body, firing its way through his muscles. His chest tightens, arching his back off a surface. He slams back down, the dull thud echoing through the cavernous room. The smell of burning hair assaults his nostrils. He can hear a flurry of activity around him. Someone's barking orders, a no-nonsense female voice commanding action in medical terms that he cannot bother himself to try to comprehend.

He tries to open his eyes, but the lids are too heavy to lift.

Tony hears the static hum of a machine close-by. The stern woman yells another order.

"Clear!"

Electricity snakes through his body again. His back arches and he collides with the table again. He feels plastic around his nose and mouth, forcing air into his lungs. Tony suddenly realizes it's his hair that's burning. He's ready to protest, to yell at the group of people to leave him alone, to beg whoever is pestering him to leave him alone.

He just wants to be left alone.

But when he hears a quiet thud, his words stop in his throat.

"Got a beat, but we lost it!"

"200 Joules again."

"If we - "

"Do it, now."

"Clear!"

When the third jolt of current flows through Tony's body, he gasps involuntarily. His eyes open and his gaze fixes on the white drop ceiling overhead. As soon as it arrives of its own volition, the air leaves his lungs, making way for another. There's a quiet thud that resounds within his chest, rapidly followed by another and another, then more still.

Tony inhales again, ignoring the noise around him to focus on the quiet march of his heartbeat.

There are the quiet congratulatory murmurs under the medical orders, the discreet sounds of success in a hospital room.

The only thing Tony can focus on is the steady thump of his heart. While its melody echoes in his ears, Tony realizes just how much he has taken the organ's clamor for granted. The comforting noise that signaled life, its response to stress and love, happiness and fear, always present and ignored until that first moment of consciousness without it.

"Nice steady rhythm. We got him back, good job everyone," the dark-haired doctor states, hands on hips and sweaty face triumphant.

Tony's eyelids fall closed, too heavy for him to hold open anymore. As he starts to drift away again, he hears the hospital staff breaking the room down for another patient. His bed starts to rock as he's whisked away, the air caressing his skin as they go.

A firm hand grasps his shoulder and he lolls his head, blinking barely enough to see the dark-haired doctor inches from his face. She smiles at him, squeezing his arm as they jog.

"I told you...you don't get to die during my code."

Before Tony can respond, exhaustion reaches after him and spirits him away.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo_

**Author's Note About What's Going On :** _I'd planned to explain everything in my final author's note, but since I've received a lot of questions/PMs/reviews about the subject. During the course of the story, Tony has experienced my take on a "near death experience."_

_NDEs frequently occur when the heart stops and blood flow to the brain decreases. It signals the first stages in body's process of dying. People have reported seeing everything from religious figures to "the light" to life reviews (like in the movies) to having an out of body experience, like Tony did. Most of these experiences are limited to the hospital room such as watching doctors run a code. There have been a few isolated reports about people experiencing an out of body experience outside of the hospital. In these cases, people have reported watching their families and loved ones mourn their loss through funerals, inside the hospital, in their homes, etc. For all intents and purposes, these people experience life as a ghost._

_So for this story, everything Tony has experienced thus far (except for being shot) was a byproduct of his heart stopping. Even in the presence of clinical death (no heart rhythm), there is still life for a few minutes where the brain is active. So while Tony was clinically dead (no heart rhythm), he was still alive through the code. Few people are able to come back from the brink and report what they see in those minutes._

_This story was my take on that. Everything I wrote is how Tony believed the team would react since it's going on in his head. When he went through the experience, it felt as real as life._

_Whether or not, it would actually play out that way is open to debate._

_Reunions will be up sometime._

_Hope you've liked the story thus far._


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer : While I might pretend they belong to me, they certainly don't...  
**

**Author's Note :** _As always, thank you to everyone who's read, followed, favorited and sent PMs for this story. Extra thanks to **Maunzeli, Susie869, AgentD.6, scousemuz1k, DS2010, Scat210, diana_teo, jennii.b, HSMSupernatural and Guest - Laurie and anon **for the reviews._

_I apologize for the huge delay for this chapter. I carried this scene around for a very long time before I could get it where I wanted it. While some might not be happy with the ending, it just felt right. Thank you for all the gentle nudging in the PMs that it took me to finally get on with it. _

_I also went through the earlier chapters to clean up the names so they flow better. _

_Finishing up the next casefic for the BigBang over at LJ. Will be up here sometime in late October/early November. Be on the lookout! _

_Well without further ado (and no more delay), here's the last chapter of **Limbo**. _

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Wednesday, February 16, 2006 – 3:01am – ICU - George Washington Hospital – Washington, DC –**

Knees hugged tightly to his chest, Tim sits on an uncomfortably vinyl chair by the hospital bed of his superior, his senior field agent, his friend…Tony. Before he can stop it, another strangled hiccup escapes his throat, momentarily drowning out the quiet bleeping of the cardiac monitor. He reaches to push another tear away from his cheek, not realizing that he ran out hours ago.

Tim rests his chin on his knees, staring intently at the inert form tucked into the bed. With all the tubes and wires that attach Tony to the various machines, he no longer resembles the lively agent that bounces around the bullpen, reciting about movies quotes and flinging spitballs. When he finally works up the courage to look at Tony's face, Tim can't believe that his cheeks are paler than the sheets beneath his head. The junior agent's chest tightens at the sight, making him swallow hard.

Only the quiet beep of a sinus rhythm on the monitor and the deliberate rise of Tony's chest let Tim know that he isn't ready to formally visit Ducky…yet.

Before he can launch into another torrent of self-inflicted guilt, a quiet scuff of a shoe against the linoleum reminds Tim that Gibbs still holds his vigil in the hallway. Rooted in the same spot since Tony was brought up from surgery, their boss hasn't been bothered to move. Despite the head nurse's review of hospital policy for one visitor per room at any given time, Gibbs opted to plant himself mere inches from the doorway. While he takes a more liberal view of the rules, the rest of the team agreed to alternate keeping watch by Tony's bedside.

Even though he should've been relieved over an hour ago, no one ever came to pry Tim from his chair.

_Maybe they just didn't have the heart to…_

Tim rakes his hand over his face, careful not to take his eyes off Tony. Every part of him fears that if he looks away, the constant beep of Tony's heart might vanish again…just like it did in the warehouse.

Running his hands over the hospital scrubs that he swapped for his soiled clothes in the emergency department, Tim can't get the sensation of Tony's blood off them. No matter how hard he's tried, the tackiness still lingers on his fingertips, under his nails, on his palms. Even the hour he spent scrubbing his hands raw can't remove sticky feeling, leaving him sympathizing with Lady MacBeth and her inability to be cleansed.

Tim wonders whether he'll ever feel clean again until he glances back to Tony's ashen face.

_Does it even matter? _

With the shake of his head, Tim fights the hiccuped sob that threatens to rise in his throat. He sucks in a ragged inhale, catching the scent of burnt coffee that somehow manages to encroach on the strong reek of disinfectant. While Gibbs hasn't breathed a word since the team went to the waiting room, just his presence comforts Tim. Still certain that his boss only came for Tony, he decides he can pretend Gibbs is here for him too until told otherwise.

Twisting around in the chair, Tim somehow manages to find a more uncomfortable position as he leans his head on the hard armrest. Exhaustion hits him out of nowhere and he wages a losing battle against his eyes to stay open, knowing that he can't give in until Tony wakes. There's another squeak of Gibbs' shoe as he shifts his weight and Tim perks up for a second before his eyelids flutter closed again.

Knowing someone else keeps lookout, he feels himself slump against the vinyl.

Even though he fights desperately to stay alert, the quiet beeping of Tony's heartbeat lulls Tim to sleep.

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**8:32am – ICU - George Washington Hospital – Washington, DC –**

_The icy air blasts through the shattered windows, swirling the dust that covers the ground under his knees. While his lungs burn for air, Tim can't bring himself to take a breath. He can't even focus or think, let alone move from his position on the floor. His gaze is riveted on the gun that glints in the sunlight that sneaks through the filthy glass. _

_Only a few feet away, Carlos Ruiz keeps a weapon trained on him. The look in his eyes tells Tim that he won't be making it out alive. While he's tried to live a full life, there are so many things left unsaid and undone. He doesn't know where to start with his regrets, but he always thought the world would end on a happier note than the bullet from a suspect's gun. _

_He swallows hard, unable to look away. Ruiz's lips move slowly, shouting incoherent syllables, but Tim can only hear the pound of his heartbeat. Out of the corner of his eye, he swears that he sees Tony. _

_Just as he's about to beg for his life, the gun goes off... _

_Isn't this the way it's supposed to be? _

Tim bolts upright, nearly topping over, chair and all. Heart racing, his eyes dart the stark hospital room, from the monitors and the senior agent's still unconscious form. Breathing slowly in a feeble attempt to calm himself, Tim uses his shaking hand to chase the sweat from his brow. When something cold touches his burning forehead, he drops his hand to his lap, surprised to find a silver medal in his grasp.

Rolling it in his fingers, Tim stares intently at the saint whose face has been rubbed away so he's only identifiable by the name at the bottom : Saint Anthony.

It looks unfamiliar in his hands. Usually, the medal makes an appearance on the odd case that troubles the senior agent…and only when he thinks no one's watching. Tim lets the chain it hangs from slither through his hand, remembering the last night Tony wore it.

The night Kate died…

He's fairly certain that the saint lost most of his features that night.

Tim absently runs his thumb over the even facing. By the time Tony wakes, he wonders whether anything'll be left.

He glances over his shoulder, meeting Gibbs' watchful eyes. The deliberate shake of his boss' head tells Tim that he isn't the one responsible for dropping it off. Pressing his lips together, he nods slowly and decides Abby must've brought it...or perhaps, Ducky.

Not having any better lead, he decides this mystery doesn't need to be solved right away. He settles back into his seat to watch the continual rise and fall of Tony's chest. Unconsciously, his fingers begin to trace the saint's outline. While he can barely remember the words to the prayers he learned in school, Tim decides to try anyway.

It doesn't even matter that he doesn't know what he believes anymore…

He sits there for a long time, defacing a saint and silently speaking to whoever listens.

Only the sporadic squeak of Gibbs' shoes breaks the silence.

When Tim finally notices the first light of dawn break outside the window, he stops. He silently watches the delicate pink and orange chase away the dark purple clouds. Just as the sun's rays begins to trespass onto the edge of Tony's bed, the tempo of the cardiac monitor increases. With his heart in his throat, Tim leaps out of his chair.

Stopping inches away from Tony, Tim hears Gibbs edge closer.

"Tony, please don't -" Tim can't bear to finish the thought.

"Don't what?" Tony rasps, eyes barely slitting open to check on Tim.

The words 'die again' disappear from Tim's tongue and he forces a tight smile.

"How're you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck - " Tony's face contorts in pain for a second "- but it's just a flesh wound." When he grins half-heartedly, Tony blinks slowly as he studies Tim's face. "G-d, Probie, you look like shit, what happened?"

"You got shot," Tim explains.

"Yeah, I know. What's your point?"

"Tony," Tim hiccups. "You got shot. You, you, you - "

"Yeah, I know," Tony interrupts.

As Tim runs his shaking hand over his face, Gibbs slides closer. There's a tight squeeze on his shoulder while they both study Tony's pale face.

Gibbs lets out a quiet sigh of relief.

"You damn near died, DiNozzo."

"Not damn near, boss," Tony murmurs, almost inaudible.

"What was that?"

"I said I know boss…glad to still be here."

With the three men unsure what to say to each other, a calm silence falls over them. When Tony nearly falls asleep again, Tim grips the medal so hard that he fears the indent it leaves in his palm will be permanent. Seemingly satisfied by the fact that Tony'll live and their conversation, Gibbs finally nods before moving to the head of the bed. He touches the senior agent's arm, speaking in hushed tones that Tim can't make out until he starts towards the door.

"Going to tell everyone you're awake. Good work today, DiNozzo."

"Thanks, boss."

After a quick nod, Gibbs backs out of the room, destined for the waiting area to collect the rest of his team. Crossing his arms tightly to his chest, Tim remorsefully watches Tony's features twist with discomfort as he sucks in a deep breath.

"You okay?"

"Guess the pain meds are wearing off. Do you mind getting one of the nurses for me? I might need some more before Abby gets here." He laughs, reaching towards the incision on his abdomen. When Tim doesn't move, Tony's brow furrows. "Why do you keep looking at me like that, Probie?"

"Like what?" Tim asks, suddenly finding his shoes interesting.

"Like you're the one who shot me."

"Because I –" Tim pauses to inhale deeply "- because it's my fault you got shot. If I hadn't gotten separated from you and got caught up with Ruiz, then - "

"It's not your fault, got it?" The junior agent's apathetic nod fails to convince Tony. "You ever had someone that you're responsible for, Tim?"

"I've got a younger sister, Sarah."

"You never told me there's a McSister." As Tony grins as wickedly as his exhausted body allows, Tim shakes his head. "But haven't you ever done anything crazy to protect her?"

Tim bites his lower lip, nodding slowly as he watches the sunlight's rays sneak through the window.

"I hacked into her ex-boyfriend's computer once when he wouldn't leave her alone. Hijacked his system, corrupted most of his files, and left him a message telling him the FBI would be monitoring his future activity," he replies, cracking a devious smile. "This was before I actually became an agent though."

"How badass of you." Tony laughs, grimacing at the action. "But see? Whatever it takes, Tim, we always have our family's six."

"What do – "

"Always."

Before Tim can ask Tony to explain, the senior agent's eyes fall closed. His breaths return to relaxed, even puffs as the beeping of the cardiac monitor slows too. Tim presses his lips together, listening to machines' noises as voices echo in the hallway. As the droning draws closer, Tim can make out Abby's anxious questions and Ducky's low mutterings cut short by a quick single word from Ziva. Just underneath them, he hears the squeak of Gibbs' shoes.

Tim runs his thumb over the saint medal one more time before he slips it into his friend's open hand.

"Thanks, Tony, I'll always have your six too."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**10:02am - ICU - George Washington Hospital – Washington, DC –**

An incessant, electronic beep is the first thing Tony hears, followed by the dull thud of his heartbeat that matches it perfectly. Blinking slowly, his gaze focuses on the pock-marked ceiling before his eyes glance around the room. When he realizes that it's now empty, Tony lets out a puff of relief, figuring that Gibbs made good on his threat to take the team to the cafeteria for breakfast if he didn't wake up.

While he tries to process the strange dream that he had after being shot, Tony balls his hands into fists and feels an object dig into his right palm. Perplexed, he holds it up to find his Saint Anthony medal in his grasp. His face breaks into a small smile at the faceless saint.

The fact that his teammates even know about its existence surprises him.

Tony runs his fingers over its surface, reassured by the motion that helped him through his mother's untimely death. Even though he's never been one for religion, faith was always important to her so he still tries to honor her wishes.

His gaze finds the dented tiles again, desperate see something…anything beyond it.

"Thank you for letting me come back," Tony whispers, not sure exactly who he should be addressing, "I don't know why I deserve a second chance, but I promise I'll do the best I can."

He slides the medal around his neck, feeling the warm metal graze his chest. His hands rest on his chest, touching the pile of bandages that rest underneath his hospital gown. Not needing to know the extent of his injuries, he continues to stare at the ceiling, half-expecting to see something more than the tiles.

When he hears the voices of his team echo in the hallway, Tony grins at no one in particular.

"Maybe I'm not so lost anymore."

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

**Author's Note 2.0 :**_ One thing I learned over the course of this story is that loss as well as grief is universal and I thank you all for taking the journey with me. __  
_

_93/23/60_


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